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THE WHISTLEPUNIC 



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Nat returned with his pet. -Page 188 





















THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Nat’s Adventures in a Redwood Camp 


BY 

BURNITA COLLINS 

n 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

THE AUTHOR 




BOSTON 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 









TZ‘i 

■Ctep 

Wh 


Copyright, 1932, 

By LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO 


All rights reserved 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


* . 
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PRINTED IN U.S.A 

if, 1532 s \ 


A 


5 4856 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I A Mysterious Light 

• 

• 



PAGE 

9 

II 

Nat Leads the Pack 

Train 



37 

III 

The Storm . 

• 




56 

IV 

Mad River . 

• 




69 

V 

Nat Returns 

• 




75 

VI 

In the Cook-House 

• 




89 

VII 

Runaway 

• 




107 

VIII 

The Galloping Goose 

• 




124 

IX 

A Surprise . 

• 




132 

X 

The Whistlepunk 

• 




139 

XI 

A Redwood Tree Falls 




155 

XII 

A Clue . 

• 




166 

XIII 

The Sky-line 

• 




177 

XIV 

A Robbery . 

• 




192 

XV 

Through the Black 

Forest 



204 

XVI 

Flying Lead . 

• 




214 

XVII 

The Search . 

• 




229 

XVIII 

The Blazing Forest 

• 




239 

XIX 

Nat Fights Fire . 

• 




247 

XX 

Nat Under Fire . 

• 




255 

XXI 

Home-coming . 

• 




274 

XXII 

Mysteries Explained 

• 




286 


6 






ILLUSTRATIONS 


Nat returned with his pet (Page 188) 

“Blest if it ain’t my old friend Nat!” 
“Do you see th’ same thing I do?” 
“There it is, Old Timer, there it is!” 


Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

58 
. 164 

. 234 


7 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


CHAPTER I 

A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 

“One to go ahead, 

Two to come back; 

Three for an easy pull, 

Four for the slack. 

Nat Taylor, helper in the Camp Redwood cook¬ 
house, headquarters of the Shannon Lumber Com¬ 
pany, hummed the song of the Whistlepunk as he 
dropped heavy white china plates and saucers into 
a deep sink of steaming, soapy water. “Whew!” 
he whistled, as he glanced at the clock. “Six-fif¬ 
teen! Guess I’ll have to hurry, or I’ll not get a 
ride up the mountain to my line of traps this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“What’s your hurry?” asked Scotty McLean, 
waiter and handy man, who was busy brushing up 
the range on the opposite side of the kitchen. “The 
train won’t be here for twenty minutes.” 

“But see all the dishes I have to wash! And that 
pile of mush bowls, too!” Nat plunged his arm 
deep into the water, swirled the dishes, lifted them 

9 


10 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

out, dipped them into an adjoining sink of clean 
hot water, and stacked them shining and dripping 
upon the drain-board. 

At fifteen, Nat was a boy of the mountains. 
Looking at him for the first time you might have 
thought him plain; but when he spoke, the joiliest 
kind of smile came into his eyes, whose heavy black 
lashes made their blue seem the brighter as he 
squinted shrewdly to note the direction of a sharp 
wind, or listened for a sound in the woods. His 
nose and mouth were generous, but two rows of 
even white teeth made amends for his other more 
common features. His light hair was closely cut, 
but on his forehead was an awry lock that never 
stayed neatly combed. 

Nat was an orphan. When he was seven years 
old his father had died in Camp Redwood. His 
mother passed away seven years later. Since then 
Nat had worked in the company’s cook-house be¬ 
cause he wished to be near the steward, Higgins, 
and his wife, who had befriended him, and because 
he had a definite object in view. 

Nat frowned now as he looked at the stacks of 
mush bowls. 

u How many men did we feed this morning, 
Scotty?” 

“Seventy; but we won’t have so many when the 
new cook-house at Camp 25 is finished, for some of 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 11 

them will move up there.” Scotty twirled his 
drooping sandy mustache and looked musingly at 
Nat. “Why ? Are you tired so early in the morn¬ 
ing?” 

“Tired!” Nat pointed with dripping fingers at 
the mush bowls. “Tired! You bet I’m tired. 
Seventy plates, seventy cups and saucers, and 
seventy mush bowls, three times a day! Dishes for 
seventy men!” His elbow rested on the edge of 
the sink and his chin sank into his cupped hand. He 
looked wistfully at Scotty. “Say, I’d like to be a 
whistlepunk out in the woods. Wouldn’t it be great 
to sit on a stump, pull on the old whistle wire, make 
the donkey engine go ‘Toot, toot, toot’, and watch 
the logs being pulled into the landing?” 

Emma, the waitress, called from the dining¬ 
room to Nat: “I do wish you’d finish those dishes 
so I can wash the knives and forks and set the tables 
for dinner.” Though she spoke sharply, her voice 
was sympathetic. She often felt sorry for Nat and 
sometimes helped him, but this morning she had 
extra work to do. 

The boy sighed and his hands went quickly into 
the sink. “Don’t worry, Emma. I’ll help you 
when I get back from my trap line.” 

At this moment Adams Cluff, the cook, stepped 
into the kitchen from the meat room. 

“I’ve got extra things for you to do, an’ you’ll 


12 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

have all you can ’tend to to do your own work an’ do 
it right,” he said. “I want you to clean the pantry 
an’ sort the cans of fruit an’ vegetables.” He 
picked up a paring-knife and started to peel onions 
and slice them over the top of the meat. Adams 
Cluff was stockily built, dark and stern-featured, 
and rarely talkative. 

“All right,” drawled Nat. His day seemed 
dimmed, for he hated to work in the pantry. He 
hated it more than washing dishes, for at the sink he 
could look through the window; but the pantry was 
different. It had only one small window and that 
was so high that all he could see was a tiny patch of 
sky. “May I do it this afternoon?” he asked. “I 
have to ’tend to my traps this morning.” 

“Yes, but you’ll have to make up the time you’re 
off.” Cluff opened the oven, shoved in the pan of 
meat, closed the door with a bang, and went out for 
other duties. 

Nat gave him a sidelong glance and turned from 
the window as two far-away blasts of a whistle came 
to his ears. “Hear that, Scotty? Six-thirty 
whistle. Some day I’ll be blowing that out there 
on the mountain top.” 

“Sure, that would be fine,” Scotty agreed. “But 
I thought you wanted to go to school.” 

“Well,” Nat dipped a long slender forefinger 
into the dishwater and drew wet circles upon the 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 13 

drain-board. “I do. But I’d make more money 
punkin’ whistles and could save more and go to 
school sooner. Don’t you see ?” 

Scotty was fond of Nat, and wished him every 
success; but he had lived so long the life of the lum¬ 
ber camps that he could not quite understand the 
boy’s ambition to gain an education and so fit him¬ 
self for a better future. Mr. Harrison, superin¬ 
tendent of the camp, was Nat’s ideal, but Nat knew 
that he could never become such a man without a 
more substantial foundation than he was then ac¬ 
quiring. And it was with this in mind that he 
worked and saved—and looked ahead. 

So it was with no wish to hurt the boy that Scotty 
answered, laughingly: “I reckon you could punk 
whistles all right, but I think some of your dreams 
have just about as much chance to come true as my 
songs about Paul Bunyan.” His gray eyes sparkled 
under his bushy eyebrows as he stood very straight, 
with chin held high, and sang in a loud, brisk voice: 

“Did you ever hear of Paul Bunyan, 

And Babe, his ox of blue? 

His deeds are spiced with mystery, 

And the loggers say they’re true. 

“This Paul was an ideal logger, 

Who had through the land renown; 

For he logged off a big mountain 
That was growing upside down. 



14 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“He scooped out lakes and rivers, 

And gained a lasting fame; 

They needed help on the Western coast, 

So down from the North he came.” 

“Paul Bunyan was a great logger, wasn’t he, 
Scotty?” Nat dropped a stack of mush bowls into 
the sink, and went on with his task as he talked. 
“When did he come down here?” 

“I don’t know exactly.” Scotty looked thought¬ 
ful. He was himself a dreamer, and delighted the 
lumberjacks with his Paul Bunyan jingles. His 
stories of this giant logger and Babe, his blue ox, 
had been told and retold around the bunk-houses. 

“Well, how did he get here?” Nat demanded. 

Scotty smiled broadly as he sang his reply: 

“Down to the stately Redwoods 
Paul Bunyan made a trail, 

Many miles long and ten feet wide 
With one swish of Old Babe’s tail. 

“The trail was so rough and so crooked, 

Babe was hitched to one end in surprise; 

And with one mighty jerk he pulled it 
As straight as the black crow flies.” 

Nat’s eyes danced as he learned more of the mythi¬ 
cal hero of the lumberjacks. But even the prospect 
of some new adventures of Paul Bunyan, told in 
Scotty’s own way, could not hold his attention as he 
heard a whining and scratching at the kitchen door. 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 15 

“I’m afraid Micky is going to get into trouble with 
a wildcat or some other wild animal and not get 
back home some of these nights,” he said, as he went 
to open the door. 

“Has he been gone all night?” Scotty asked. 

“He sure has.” 

“You ought to lock him in your cabin before 
dark.” 

“Yes, but he’s just wise enough to stay out of 
sight at bedtime.” Nat stooped to pick up his little 
pet coon, which was huddled in the dark on the porch. 
“Micky, by rights I ought to punish”—as he 
straightened up he left the sentence unfinished, and 
stood staring out into the night in the direction of 
the Lone Pine trail, which zigzagged up the side of 
the mountain directly back of Camp Redwood and 
led to the Lone Pine Lumber Company’s camps in 
the woods ten miles away. With an exclamation 
he glanced at Scotty, then again looked steadily 
toward the mountain. “Well, that’s funny,” he 
said musingly. “There it is again!” 

Scotty came and peered out over his shoulder. 
“What is it? I don’t see anything,” he said. 

“It’s a light. A dim greenish one that shone 
twice, out there on the trail.” With Micky in his 
arms, Nat walked to the edge of the porch. “It 
must have been more than halfway down. I can’t 
tell exactly in the dark.” j 


16 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Aw, I think you’re just seein’ things,” Scotty 
scoffed. “The loggers have all gone to work, and 
anyway they’re all working at Camp 25 and you 
know they go across the river and up the other way.” 

“Sure. That’s why it’s funny. Nobody ever 
uses the old trail unless some of the men go hunting. 
And nobody would be out hunting so early in the 
morning; and besides, it is almost covered up with 
weeds and underbrush. I was up there hunting 
rabbits not long ago. Look, Scotty! Quick! See 
it?” Nat grabbed his companion’s shoulder. “It’s 
gone now. Did you see it?” 

“Naw, I didn’t see anything.” 

“You didn’t look quick enough. I tell you there 
is something or somebody out on that trail. Seems 
to me if it was a man he’d leave his flashlight on 
steady instead of just flashing it. It wasn’t exactly 
a flash, either. It was a sort of greenish glow.” 

“Glowworm! That’s what it is. The woods are 
full of ’em this time of year,” laughed Scotty. 
“Whoo-o! It’s clear and cold this morning. Frost 
an inch thick, I’ll bet.” He turned and went in¬ 
side. 

“Just as if you could see a glowworm that far 
away! That’s impossible, Scotty. It couldn’t 
have been that.” Nat had followed him in and had 
set the little coon on the floor at the end of the range. 
“Micky, you’re a sight!” he exclaimed. “Mud all 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 17 

over you and your fur is soppin’ wet. Where’ve 
you been all night, anyway?” 

Finding a piece of old cloth he began vigorously 
to rub the coon’s fur. But the incident of the light 
was not forgotten. As he rubbed and scolded he 
wondered who was out on the Lone Pine trail. 

Emma came in from the dining-room. “Say 
Nat, it’s a good thing Cluff stepped out or you 
wouldn’t be loafing and playing with the coon in 
the kitchen,” she smiled. 

“Maybe you think I don’t know it? But I’m not 
loafing, Emma. I’m cleaning Micky.” Nat liked 
to work but he did not like to be driven, and the cook, 
he thought, was unreasonable. It was always, 
“Clean up the cellar! Straighten up the pantry! 
Go to the store. Bring me this and bring me that!” 
During the day the boy seldom had a chance to go 
even to his bunk-house to study or to read some of 
the few books he had been able to accumulate. And 
he always had to promise to do extra work to make 
up the hour or more that it took to look at his trap 
line every morning. 

“If you’re goin’ to ride up the hill this morning,” 
interposed Scotty, “you’ll have to ramble, for I hear 
the train coming now.” 

“Well, I guess I will have to go or get left,” Nat 
exclaimed, as a train slowed down and came to a 
stop beside the cook-house. Taking up a small 


18 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


paper sack containing fish heads and fins, selecting 
an apple from a box in the pantry, and picking up 
Micky, he hurried to his one-room cabin, put the 
coon on the foot of his cot and gave him the apple. 
He then grabbed his sweater and his hat, reached for 
his squirrel rifle hanging on the board wall, and ran 
out and climbed into the engine cab. 

“Hello, Nat!” Shorty Burke, the engineer, 
greeted him and moved forward in his seat. “Get 
up here behind me. It’s pretty cold this January 
morning.” 

“How’s trapping?” the fireman at the other side 
of the cab asked the boy. 

“Not very good. Haven’t made as much as I 
expected to.” Nat thought of his little tobacco 
sacks hidden in his trunk in the bunk-house. Two 
were brimful of paper dollars, but the other five were 
only half full of pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters 
and half-dollars—his savings since he had been com¬ 
pelled to give up school and go to work. A year’s 
savings, and only $65.45. That wouldn’t go very 
far toward gaining the education for which he 
hoped. He’d have to do better than that. 

Shorty reached for the whistle-cord and blew two 
shrill blasts. He pulled open the throttle and the 
wheels of engine Number 33 squeaked over the 
joints of the frosty rails as she started to crawl on 
her daily trip to the four logging camps, with her 



A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 19 

string of empty log-cars dragging behind. Each 
morning she went to the various camps, leaving 
some of her cars at each to be loaded with logs. At 
night she returned to Camp Redwood with the logs 
and left them there to be taken by another engine on 
their twenty-mile journey to the mill, on Humboldt 
Bay, where they were sawed into lumber. 

Nat looked ahead. The sky in the east was just 
beginning to turn light and the stars were disappear¬ 
ing. He gazed across Little River, which ran 
through the center of the valley, parallel to the rail¬ 
road track. Camp Redwood was waking up. 
Flickering lights appeared in the windows of the 
unpainted cottages where the loggers lived. Whiffs 
of smoke from their chimneys mounted straight up 
in the still air. 

The long bare limbs of the alder trees along the 
sandy banks of the river took on grotesque shapes 
in the semi-daylight. Tall stumps, some blackened 
and scarred from the ravages of forest fires, some 
bleached and gray, left standing after loggers had 
felled their neighbors, towered above the clumps of 
small second growth that dotted the mountains. 
Huge logs, found to be rotten in the heart and use¬ 
less for lumber, were lying about in disorder, like 
the pictured ruins of an old temple Nat had once 
seen in a book. 

As the train reached the top of the mountain 


20 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


where the track was almost level, Nat looked down 
into the valley below. He could see the frost- 
covered roofs of the cottages in Camp Redwood, 
and spied the cook-house with the two rows of bunk- 
shanties behind it, his own among them. His eyes 
followed the muddy waters of Little River north¬ 
ward and he glimpsed the house of Harrison, the 
Superintendent, set farther back from the railroad 
track. Then he saw the line of a trail along the 
track and across the swinging bridge that spanned 
the river north of the camp. On a hilltop he saw 
two cattle-sheds, each as long as a city block, and a 
tiny cabin where lived Jake Hansen, the man who 
cared for the cattle, pack mules, and horses. He 
thought of the times when he had gone with Jake and 
the pack train far into the forest, with provisions 
for surveyors and cruisers. 

As “33” stopped at Camp 25, Nat jumped down 
from his seat, grabbed his squirrel rifle, and swung 
down from the steps of the cab. 

“Well, s’long, hope you caught a grizzly bear in 
one of your traps last night,” Shorty called after 
him. 

“I hope I didn’t catch one,” Nat smiled. “I don’t 
think I could kill it with this ‘22.’ Anyway, my 
traps are all small ones and he’d have walked away 
with any one of them. S’long.” 

He started down the mountainside where his line 


21 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 

of traps was set. Upon reaching the first three, 
which he had set around a sluggish pool of water, 
he was disappointed to see that not a trap had been 
sprung. He searched at the edge of the water for 
tracks. “Jimmy!” he cried, as he discovered what 
looked to him like a large cat’s tracks. “They sure 
are tracks,” was his thought, as he laid his gun on 
a log and surveyed the find. “Hm-m, bobcat 
tracks; great big ones. Almost as big as the palm 
of my hand. This is where he came this morning to 
get a drink. And he was here not very long ago, 
for his tracks in the mud aren’t frozen. I’ll set a 
trap right here and wire it to this willow tree. 
Maybe I’ll catch this fellow to-night. I hope I can. 
Oh, boy, I’d like to walk into camp with him slung 
over my shoulder! Wonder how much I would get 
for his pelt.” 

Taking up one of the unsprung traps and mov¬ 
ing it to the new location, he scraped away some 
twigs and leaves at the foot of the tree, hastily dug 
a little hole about three inches deep, placed the trap 
in the hole, and carefully scattered fallen leaves and 
dry grass over it. “Now, that’s a good setting. 
Bet I get him, all right,” he assured himself. 

He picked up an old can from beside a log, dipped 
it into the pool, and threw water all around the trap 
to wash away his tracks. Then he took his rifle and 
bag of bait and started down the mountain. 


22 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


Nat hurried along to where he had set traps for 
three months, trying to catch the wary mink whose 
pelt was so valuable that it would give him a big 
help toward his schooling. Peaching the river, he 
climbed upon an old log that served as a bridge from 
the bank to the top of the jam. There he could peep 
through a little open space at a sand-bar, where one 
of his traps was set. But he had no luck here, either, 
for not a sign of a mink was to be seen. He sat 
down on the log and watched the water. 

A rustle of dry leaves attracted his attention and 
he reached for his rifle. Creeping out from the 
river bank was a mink, making ready to pounce upon 
a water ousel that was standing on a rock near the 
end of the log. 

Nat raised his rifle and fired. The mink leaped 
into the air, turned a couple of somersaults, and 
dived into the river, as the frightened ousel skimmed 
the water and flew out of sight downstream. Nat 
fired again at the mink, which ceased its wild plung¬ 
ing and sank out of sight, presently to rise to the 
surface and be carried by the current to the edge of 
the pond, where it became fast among the rushes, 
and was within reach. 

Nat waded in and grasped the mink, holding it 
at arm’s length for inspection. “Boy! What a 
beauty!” he exclaimed. “Dark brown fur with big 
bushy tail; must be two feet from tip to tip, and the 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 23 

fur is well set. Sixteen dollars for good dark mink 
pelts, and this is a good one!” 

In his hurry to show the pelt to his friends at the 
cook-house, Nat forgot to look at the rest of his 
traps, and hastened toward the camp with his rifle 
on his shoulder and the mink swinging by his side. 

As he came to the swinging bridge he saw Jake, 
the packer, walking toward camp, and shouted, 
“Hey! Jake, look what I’ve got!” 

The man saw his prize and whistled, as Nat ran 
across the bridge and stood expectantly, waiting 
for him to speak. 

“Where in the world did you find that animal, 
Nat?” 

Nat glanced up the river. “On a log up there,” 
he said. 

“Did you trap him?” Jake lifted the mink and 
looked it over closely. 

“No, shot it.” 

“That was a pretty good shot.” 

“Oh, I practise a lot. Got a target in the alders 
back of the bunk-shanty.” 

As he led the way along the trail and up the em¬ 
bankment to the railroad track Nat related his ad¬ 
venture, hurrying on with head held high and eyes 
shining above his frost-reddened nose and cheeks. 

When they reached the cook-house Jake started 
on down the track, but he first cautioned Nat: “Bet- 


24 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

ter be careful and not cut the pelt when you skin 
that mink, Nat.” 

“You bet I will!” Nat answered, then proudly 
walked into the kitchen. 

“My stars! What’s the boy got?” Emma ex¬ 
claimed. “Take it away! Don’t you bring it into 
this kitchen.” She shook her head vigorously. 

Nat laughed as he stepped back on the porch. 
“Can’t hurt you, Emma. Isn’t it a dandy?” 

Mrs. Higgins, the steward’s wife, hurried from 
her cabin and joined Nat on the porch. “My! what 
beautiful fur!” she praised, as she gingerly touched 
the mink with the tips of her fingers. 

Higgins, coming from the post office, rounded 
the corner of the cook-house with a bundle of news¬ 
papers under his arm. He was a man of medium 
height, dark-complexioned, and of a very gentle 
disposition. His brown eyes opened wide when he 
saw what Nat had. “A mink? That’s a fine pelt, 
Nat,” he said, as he stepped forward and took the 
mink in his hands. “Fur’s shiny and soft as silk, 
ain’t it?” 

“Sakes alive!” cried Mrs. Higgins. “The boy’s 
all wet. Look at his overalls and boots. Come in 
this minute and change your clothes, Nat, or you’ll 
catch a mighty bad cold.” Taking him by the arm, 
she led him to his cabin to put on dry clothes. 

“Well, Micky,” Nat said to the little pet coon 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 25 

that was curled up on the foot of his cot, “we got 
him that time, didn’t we? Soon’s I change we’ll 
go out and skin him, and we’ll sure take good care 
of that pelt!” 

Micky blinked his beady black eyes and playfully 
clawed at Nat’s hand. 

After the boy had changed his clothes he took the 
mink, a hammer, and some nails, and went to a clump 
of alders, where he nailed the mink by its hind feet 
to the trunk of a tree. He then quickly slashed the 
pelt along the under side of the hind legs and pre¬ 
pared to remove it. 

He heard a rustle in the dry leaves behind and 
turned sharply. “Micky!” he called. “What are 
you after?” 

But Micky didn’t seem to hear. He bounded 
around, jumping, hopping, and throwing the leaves 
wildly about. 

“What’s the matter with the coon?” Jack Irving, 
camp boss at Camp 25, stopped and looked musingly 
at Micky. “Has he gone crazy?” he asked. 

Nat laughed and started to peel the mink pelt 
downward, inside out. “Naw, he’s just playing. 
He likes to throw the leaves around to hear them 
rattle.” 

Micky stopped suddenly, turned his head to one 
side and looked inquiringly at Irving, then scam¬ 
pered up the trunk of an alder tree, with his sharp 


26 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

claws making a clicking noise on the bark. As he 
reached the first limb he huddled up into a ball, with 
his bushy black and white ringed tail curled around 
his paws. 

“Where’d you get the mink, Nat?” Irving 
watched the boy as he skillfully removed the pelt. 

“Up the river.” Nat’s face wrinkled in a smile 
as he turned to see Scotty coming toward him. 

“By George! You did get a mink, didn’t you? 
How much will you get for it? I guess you’ll be 
leaving us now for the big city.” Scotty said it all 
in one breath. 

“Yes,” drawled Nat, “if I catch a lot more of 
these right away.” He held the pelt up so that he 
might look at it more closely. “Pretty neat. 
Never cut one hole in it.” He started toward his 
cabin, taking long strides and swinging the pelt at 
his side. “Come on, Micky.” 

With one leap Micky landed on the ground in 
front of Scotty, who jumped back with an exclama¬ 
tion. “Micky, you’re some jumper! Just like Jim 
Liverpool, one of Paul Bunyan’s loggers.” Pick¬ 
ing the coon up he tossed him to his shoulder, and 
walked along behind Irving and Nat, while he sang: 

“Jim Liverpool was awful swift 
And sprightly, and beside, 

He could jump across some rivers 
That were mighty big and wide. 


27 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 

“Now Jim would never lose a bet 
Paul’s men were always trumps; 

’Cross any river in the world 
He’d jump in three big jumps.” 

Irving burst into a ringing laugh, but Nat looked 
thoughtful. He liked to pretend to himself that 
Paul Bunyan and his lumberjacks were really great 
men, who lived and worked and accomplished gi¬ 
gantic tasks. He glanced at Scotty and Irving. 
The top of Scotty’s head reached only to Irving’s 
shoulder. Scotty’s shoulders were thin and droop¬ 
ing, with his head held slightly forward. Irving’s 
shoulders were broad and straight, with his head and 
sturdy neck set proudly upon them. His short can¬ 
vas coat made them seem even broader. As he took 
long strides it seemed to Nat that his legs were twice 
as long as Scotty’s. He thought to himself, “Paul 
Bunyan’s lumberjacks were just like Irving.” 

“Let’s see you stretch that pelt, Nat.” Irving 
stopped by Nat’s door. “Nice lot of skunks you’ve 
caught.” He looked at the four skunk pelts 
stretched on the outside wall of the cabin. 

“You don’t stretch the mink like those, do you?” 
Scotty asked. 

“No.” Nat went into the cabin and brought out 
a small board two feet in length and five inches wide 
at one end, the other end tapering to a point. “You 
see, the skunks are all cut so that they can be 


28 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

stretched flat, just like a bear rug. But this is dif¬ 
ferent. I didn’t cut it in two underneath and strip 
it back. I turned it inside out as I took it off, so I 
wouldn’t have to cut it, for I can get more money if 
it’s round, just like when it was on the mink.” He 
slipped the pelt down the tapered end of the board 
and fastened the nose to the point, then carefully 
stretched and pulled it farther down on the wide 
part of the board. 

“Say, by the way,” said Irving, “some one’s been 
stealing my chickens. I lost one last night and one 
the night before last. Do you think it could be a 
mink?” 

“Skunks,” said Scotty, as he pulled a pouch of 
tobacco from his pocket and started to fill his pipe. 

“It may be, but I don’t think so.” Irving shook 
his head doubtfully. “Some of these nights I’ll 
sit up for that thief and pepper him good with shot¬ 
gun lead. Well, I’ve got to go now. Hope you 
catch some more minks, Nat,” he said as he walked 
away. 

“Yep, I hope so, too, kid. And I’ve got to get to 
work.” Scotty walked into the cook-house, while 
Nat picked up a hammer and some tacks and started 
to tack the pelt to the board so that it would stay 
stretched until dry. 

At this moment Adams Cluff, the cook, came out 
with a long butcher-knife in one of his broad red- 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 29 

knuckled hands. “Say, I thought I told you I had 
extra work for you to-day,” he said threateningly. 
“You’ve been loafin’ all mornin’, but now you’re 
goin’ to work, and I don’t mean maybe!” 

Nat looked up and said easily, “Trapping is not 
loafing.” 

“Now none of your back-talk! You’re not get- 
tin’ paid to run around in th’ woods all day, an’, be¬ 
sides, I’m about fed up on your neglectin’ your 
work. Here it is 8:30, an’ you ain’t even started 
to peel th’ potaters for dinner. I’ve got a good 
mind to put a stop to all this trappin’ business!” 

Before Nat realized what Cluff intended to do, 
he saw a downward flash of the sharp knife. He 
grabbed at the board over which he had stretched 
the beautiful mink pelt, but it was too late. A V- 
shaped hole had been slashed down the center of the 
back, letting the board show through the fur. 

Nat said nothing, but points of light flashed in his 
eyes as he stared at Cluff, who had turned and was 
walking away. He picked up the pelt, examined 
it, and walked slowly into his cabin, where he laid it 
on the table. “Burned, that’s sure. That was a 
dirty trick, a measly, low-down trick!” He was 
aghast to think that Cluff could have done such a 
thing. “Micky,” he said sadly to his little coon, “for 
three months I’ve been trying to catch a mink, and 
now look at that. I’ll not get much money for it 


30 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


now. Scotty would give that cook a good trounc¬ 
ing if he knew about this. And I’ll bet Mr. Higgins 
would fire him if he knew. But I won’t let them 
see it for they’d ask how it happened, and we can’t 
lie to ’em, and we’d hate to tell ’em the truth. That 
would be too much like tattletales. No, we can’t 
tell ’em, can we?” 

The little coon whined and pawed at Nat’s boots 
in a beseeching way. 

“That’s right, Micky. You can go play around 
now. I’ve got to get to work.” He looked sor¬ 
rowfully at the ruined pelt as he took off his sweater 
and hat, then stepped out to the water faucet, where 
he washed his hands thoroughly. 

Mr. Higgins, the steward, and Mrs. Higgins 
came along just as he had finished. “Did you get 
your mink skinned all right, Nat?” the former 
asked. 

“Yes, sir,” the boy said quietly, and walked into 
the cook-house. 

Cluff lifted a wire basket of puffy, golden brown 
doughnuts from a pot of smoking hot fat and 
dumped them into a pan of sugar. “Peel a quarter- 
sack of potatoes for dinner, and don’t be all day 
about it, either,” he ordered. 

Nat went into the pantry, got the potatoes, and 
began his task. “Potatoes!” he grumbled. He was 
tired of peeling potatoes. 


r 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 31 

ITis thoughts, however, were soon interrupted by 
a voice asking, “Well, hello there, who are you, 
stranger?” 

“Why-er, I’m Nathaniel Taylor; Nat, for short,” 
he answered, as he looked up at the tall, dark 
stranger. 

“G-N-A-T? It should be M-O-S-Q-U-I-T-O, 
skeeter for short.” The stranger laughed boister¬ 
ously at his own joke. “Where’s the cook?” he 
asked. 

Nat pretended not to hear and continued his work. 

Stepping up on the porch, the man scowled and 
asked, “What’s the matter? Where’s the cook? 
Are you deaf?” 

“Why, no,—that is, I don’t think so,” said Nat, 
stiffly. “I suppose he’s in the cook-house. I’ll call 
him.” He jumped up, accidentally tipping over 
the bucket of peeled potatoes, which rolled and 
spread out like a fan. Some stopped, as if reluc¬ 
tant to run away, but the more adventurous ones 
went on across the porch, dropped down from the 
edge, and proceeded to explore the ferns and shrub¬ 
bery. 

With narrowed eyes and set jaws Nat stooped 
and grabbed wildly for the potatoes, just as Peggy, 
age 12, Patsy, age 10, and June, age 9, Mr. Har¬ 
rison’s three little daughters, came along on their 
way to school. 



32 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Peggy stopped and looked at Nat, with just the 
suspicion of a smile at the corners of her mouth. 
Her short light hair curled up around the edge of 
her red tarn. She wore a dark blue skirt and a white 
middy-blouse with a red silk tie. 

“Why, Nat, what has happened?” she asked, de¬ 
murely. 

The stranger thrust his hands into the pockets of 
his trousers, kicked a potato across the porch, and 
laughed noisily. 

Patsy, round-faced and jolly, laughed outright; 
her big blue eyes sparkled and the white pompon on 
the side of her blue knitted cap, which matched her 
blue sweater, danced up and down as she shook her 
head and giggled. “Don’t hurry, Peggy, let’s stay 
and watch Nat play Irish marbles,” she urged. 

Nat’s face reddened to the very roots of his sun- 
streaked hair. He glared at Patsy and closed his 
lips tightly as he glanced at the potatoes lying among 
the ferns and rocks at the edge of the porch. 

The stranger made the place ring with his loud 
guffaws as he doubled up and slapped his knees. 
Nat turned his back on him, and, frowning at the 
giggling girl, said, “Aw, you think you’re pretty 
wise, Miss Patsy Harrison, now, don’t you?” 

With hands on her hips and one shoulder held 
slightly higher than the other, Patsy asked, far too 
sweetly, “Oh, Nat, won’t you let me help you?” 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 33 

Cluff had seen the accident from the doorway, and 
shouted, “Get busy and pick up those potatoes right 
away!” 

Nat started to gather them and the girls walked 
away. He heard Peggy scolding Patsy and June, 
and he resolved to give the former the finest whistle 
he could make as soon as the sap began to run in the 
willow trees. 

Cluff looked sourly at the stranger. “Who do 
you want to see?” he asked. 

“I’d like to see the cook.” 

“I’m Cluff, the cook.” 

“Well, my name’s Harrow, and I’m one of the 
timber cruisers. We are going out to get an esti¬ 
mate of the cedar timber and Harrison sent me to 
you to see about provisions to take with us. You’re 
to help me make a list of rations for three men to 
last three weeks—the pack train of mules goes out 
that often, don’t it?—I’m to have the list filled at 
the company store.” 

“When do you leave?” Cluff asked. 

“Early to-morrow morning.” 

“I’ll have the list ready in about an hour. Will 
you call for it?” 

“All right.” Harrow turned away and the cook 
hurried into the kitchen, just as Scotty stepped out 
on the porch to watch the stranger leave. “Hm-m, 
I don’t like that fellow,” he muttered. “He may 



34 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

be all right but I wouldn’t trust him. Would you, 
Micky?” 

Micky ignored Scotty’s question because he was 
very busy pawing and rolling potatoes around on 
the porch. 

“You start peeling, kid,” Scotty said to Nat. 
“I’ll pick up the rest of these.” 

“Cluff might not like it.” Nat resumed his task 
of peeling and Scotty, picking up the corners of his 
big white apron to use as a basket, started to gather 
the potatoes. “What of it?” he grinned, and 
shrugged his shoulders. 

After Scotty had picked up all of the potatoes, 
he fetched a paring-knife and sat down on the bench 
beside Nat and helped him. 

Nat wished that the superintendent’s daughters 
had not come along just as they did. He felt grate¬ 
ful to Peggy for scolding Patsy and June, but he 
could not forget how the three had laughed at him 
before the disagreeable stranger. 

It seemed to him as if he and Scotty had been 
peeling potatoes for hours when he picked up the 
last one. Cluff saw that Nat had finished his task. 
“Get in there in th’ pantry, now, an’ straighten up 
things,” he ordered. 

All that morning Nat worked in the pantry, lift¬ 
ing heavy cans, sacks, and boxes of fruit and gro¬ 
ceries. In the afternoon he cleaned out the cellar. 


A MYSTERIOUS LIGHT 35 

When he had finished that, it was supper time, and 
that meant more work, carrying heavy dishes of 
food from the kitchen to the dining-room and wait-, 
ing on the loggers. 

It was eight o’clock when he had finished washing 
the supper dishes and had put them away on the 
shelves. He dragged himself to his cabin, switched 
on the light, and sank down on his cot. “Gee! I’m 
dead tired!” Then his eyes fell upon the mink pelt, 
still on its stretcher. 

The boy stepped out on the walk and looked up 
and down the two rows of cabins. He could hear 
the lumberjacks in most of them. Some were talk¬ 
ing, some were singing. He whistled shrilly. Sud¬ 
denly a door flew open. “Hey! what do you want?” 
a deep bass voice boomed. “Oh, it’s you!” the man 
said as the light fell upon 1ST at. 

“I’m just looking for my coon,” Nat told the 
huge, red-haired, square-jawed man in the doorway. 

“Well, he ain’t in here! Beat it! Shake a leg an’ 
make it snappy!” 

Nat went back to his cabin. “Huh! Dillon! 
No wonder they call him Snappy Dillon. He’s al¬ 
ways ordering people around, just like Adams Cluff. 
And he’s always saying, ‘Make it snappy!’ I guess 
he’s the sourest and meanest man I know, exceptin’ 
Cluff and that fellow Darrow, who laughed at me 
this morning,” he said to himself. 


36 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


Nat undressed, turned off the electric light, and 
crawled under the blankets on his cot. “Wish 
Micky would come,” he thought drowsily. “Boy, 
I’m tired! Wish I didn’t have to work in that old 
cook-house. Can’t save much money. Wish I was 
a whistlepunk. Funny about that light on the Lone 
Pine Trail this morning. It was a light all right. 
I’d give a million to know who it was. Oh well....” 

He was so tired that his subconscious thoughts, 
before he dropped off to sleep, were a jumble of 
beautiful mink pelts, Paul Bunyan and his huge log¬ 
gers, peeled potatoes rolling around, and green lights 
on the Lone Pine Trail. 


/ 


CHAPTER II 

NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 

Nat was aroused the next morning by repeated 
rappings at his door, where Higgins was calling, 
“Nat, Nat, my boy, wake up!” 

He drowsily answered, “Yes, all right,” as he 
turned over and prepared to go to sleep again. But 
Higgins continued rapping as he called, “Nat, Nat, 
let me in, it’s important.” 

Important! Thump! Nat was out of bed in a 
jiffy and quickly opened the door. 

“You’d better dress in a hurry,” Higgins spoke 
abruptly. “Old Jake’s rheumatism’s worse this 
morning and he can’t take the pack train over the 
mountains with that timber-cruiser’s outfit. You’ll 
have to take his place. He says you know the trail 
and can do it.” 

Nat stared at him in amazement. It was unbe¬ 
lievable! “Do you mean that I’m to take Jake’s 
mules to the cedar timber with the cruiser’s outfit?” 
The light suddenly leaped into his eyes. “ AloneV’ 

“Exactly,” replied Higgins. “The mules are 

37 


38 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

packed and the men are eating their breakfast now, 
so get your clothes on. I’ll have your ham and eggs 
ready for you before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ ” 

Nat hurried. The thought of leading the pack 
train over the mountains was glorious. It would 
take two days and one night for the trip, and that 
would mean two days away from Adams Cluff, the 
cook-house, and potatoes! And he would be his own 
boss, too! The only disappointing thing about it was 
the fact that he was leaving so early, and when he 
should ride by the Harrisons’ Patsy would be sound 
asleep and wouldn’t see him. Oh, well, when he 
came back he would manage to have her see him and 
his grand entrance into Camp Redwood. 

“Better take my ‘22’,” he told himself. “Might 
get a chance at some rabbits or do some target-shoot¬ 
ing at Hector’s.” He reached for the rifle that was 
hanging on the wall and ran his hand along the bar¬ 
rel. “Kind of bulky to carry on the saddle. Wish 
I had a small automatic ‘32’. Gee, that would be 
just the thing to take on trips like this. Some day 
I’ll buy one.” He opened the table drawer and 
found two bars of chocolate. “I’ll take these to 
Hector. I’ve got to go, Micky, old boy,” he said 
aloud, as he went to the cot where his pet lay curled 
up like a cat. “You sly rascal!” Nat rubbed the 
coon’s head and playfully pulled his ear. “Don’t 
you get into trouble while I’m gone. Give me your 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 39 

paw.” He took a forepaw in his hand and shook it 
gently. “Good-bye, old fellow,” he said affection¬ 
ately, and went out, leaving the door ajar. 

At the same moment he heard another door close, 
and quick footsteps sounded on the board walk be¬ 
hind him. He turned and saw a man dart around 
the corner of “Snappy” Dillon’s cabin. There were 
only two dim electric lights to brighten the walk be¬ 
tween the rows of bunk-houses, but Nat had plainly 
seen the man. “Darrow. That’s who it was,” he 
thought. “Now what do you suppose he was doing 
in Dillon’s cabin? Or maybe he was in Adams 
Cluff’s. I couldn’t tell exactly which. What’d he 
sneak around the corner for? S’funny.” 

The fragrance of hot coffee and sizzling ham 
greeted Nat when he entered the cook-house. Tak¬ 
ing a plate of buttered hot cakes that Scotty had 
prepared, he flipped the ham on top of them and 
went into the dining-room. 

The electric lights were shining brightly but the 
window shades had been raised and the pink- 
flowered curtains waved slowly in the fresh, soft 
wind. He looked out and saw a line of sunlight 
along the top of the mountain across the river, and 
his face beamed. 

“Fine day for a trip into the woods, isn’t it, 
Emma?” 

“Yes, it is.” Emma clattered heavy platters of 


40 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

doughnuts as she set them on the table. “I believe 
we’re going to miss you, Nat,” she said, in a kindly 
tone. 

Nat’s glance went around the dining-room; the 
loggers had not yet come in for breakfast, but two 
timber-cruisers were already eating. The one near¬ 
est Nat was tall and slender, with a sharp, hawklike 
nose and small eyes set close together. He wore a 
green and black plaid mackinaw, and his brown 
corduroy pants were tucked into his high-top shoes. 
He had flung his broad-brimmed hat on the bench 
beside him. 

The other cruiser was short and full-faced. He 
wore a dark checked mackinaw, khaki army pants, 
and high-top shoes. 

The boy had just started upon his hot cakes when 
Darrow came in, making a loud clumping noise with 
his heavy shoes. He scowled at Nat and exclaimed, 
“Hurry up, there, kid. We can’t wait all day for 
you!” And as he sat down beside the tall cruiser he 
said, “We’ll be goin’ right now, Carl.” He helped 
himself to three fried eggs, a large slice of ham, and 
five or six hot cakes, eating very fast. 

The three men had finished and gone, when Hig¬ 
gins came in and sat down beside Nat. “That man 
Darrow seems to be an awfully ill-tempered fel¬ 
low,” he said quietly. “I wonder where he got his 
authority to give orders. You’d better keep an eye 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 41 

on him.” Then in a louder voice, “Scotty’ll look 
after your traps, and I’ll take good care of Micky 
’till you get back.” 

As Higgins went into the kitchen Nat heard him 
remark, “No business sending that boy into the 
mountains with an outfit like that. They look like 
a bad lot to me.” 

“Harrison’s order, wasn’t it?” he heard Scotty 
ask. 

“Yes,” answered Higgins. “Harrison said they 
had good recommendations, and he thinks Nat will 
be able to take care of himself. The Shannon Com¬ 
pany is anxious to sell their cedar timber to The 
Beckman Company. That’s why they are in such 
a hurry to have it cruised.” 

Nat was thoughtful. He didn’t like Darrow, 
either, and he did feel a bit shaky about going miles 
into the timber over a lonely trail with him and his 
two men. But he forgot all that when he heard the 
horses restlessly stamping and pawing the ground 
outside. 

When he went into the kitchen to explain the loca¬ 
tion of his traps to Scotty he found him flipping hot 
cakes for his own breakfast and singing: 

“Twelve husky flat-footed flunkies, 

With hams strapped to their feet, 

Helped in Paul’s big kitchen 
To cook good things to eat. 


42 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“Across the smoking gridirons 
They skated to and fro, 

To keep them slick and greasy 
For hot cakes the men loved so.” 

When 1ST at went outside he found that Darrow 
and his men had mounted their horses and were im¬ 
patiently waiting for him. He was delighted when 
he saw that he was to ride Dick, Jake’s old bay horse. 
The horse looked beautiful to Nat. He was red¬ 
dish and shiny, with a white stocking on his left hind 
leg and a white diamond in the middle of his fore¬ 
head. He had a black mane and a long black tail. 

The three mules—one brown and two black— 
with their long ears twitching, were impatient to go. 
They didn’t seem to mind their heavy pack saddles 
as they stepped lightly about, swishing their short 
tails that always reminded Nat of large paint 
brushes because Jake cut them off squarely at the 
ends. 

Nat went up to the mules and pulled the ropes 
that held their packs, to see if they were drawn 
tightly enough to prevent slipping. The pack on 
one was loose, and, as Nat adjusted the ropes, Dar¬ 
row leaned forward in his saddle and said sarcastic¬ 
ally, “Take your time, boy, take your time.” 

Mrs. Higgins, plump and round, was standing 
near. “I’ll call Higgins to help you, Nat,” she said, 
as she looked with indignation at Darrow. 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 43 

“Here I am. And here are the latest papers for 
Hector, and his mail, too,” Higgins said, as he has¬ 
tened to help Nat fasten the ropes securely. At the 
corner of the cook-house, Pinkie, the iron-gray bell- 
horse, was nibbling at a tuft of new grass. Though 
she was old and her hoofs were cracked and clumsy, 
she was just as cautious and trustworthy as Dick. 
Jake always took her along to lead the mules over 
the trail with a cowbell fastened around her neck. 

“Are you ready to go, Pinkie?” Nat patted her 
neck. “Plow’s your pack?” he asked as he tied the 
rifle, the newspapers, and the letters into a safe place 
on her saddle. 

After inspecting her pack Nat went over to Dick, 
stroked his black mane, then swung himself into the 
saddle. “Get up, Dick! Come on, Pinkie!” he 
shouted. 

Pinkie took her place behind Dick, while the mules 
fell in and Darrow and his men followed. 

The cruisers were quiet as they rode along, and the 
only noise that Nat could hear was the creak of 
saddle leather and the thud of hoofs on the hard 
path. Occasionally the clang of Pinkie’s cowbell 
was heard. 

After they had passed the Harrisons’ house and 
the last cabins at the edge of Camp Redwood, Dick 
turned down the embankment and into a trail be¬ 
neath the tall alders that grew along the river. 


44 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Pinkie and her followers moved carefully behind in 
a straight line. It was gradually coming light. 

Nat liked to go through the alders. He liked to 
look at their clean, smooth trunks, and he liked the 
musty odor of the rotting leaves that lay thickly be¬ 
neath them. 

A half-hour later, when the pack train arrived at 
the bridge that spanned Little River, he said, “We’ll 
go down to the river for water.” 

While the animals were drinking, Nat watched the 
muddy water seep into the impressions left in the 
sand by Pinkie’s hoofs. He crossed his arms and 
rested them on the horn of his saddle. A warm 
breeze was blowing through the alders and willows 
along the banks of the river. A trout leaped and 
caught a fly that had flown too near the water. 

An angry kingfisher circled overhead, dashing 
up and down the river, and calling out in his harsh 
voice. He was an unfriendly bird and resented any 
intrusion upon his premises. Perhaps, Nat thought, 
he had led his pack train to drink in the kingfisher’s 
favorite fishing hole. 

After the mules and horses had finished drinking, 
Dick turned and headed up a steep bank to the 
bridge. 

D arrow, reaching up, broke a branch from a wil¬ 
low at the edge of the water and, as he started up the 
trail, cut his mount sharply. The horse lurched for- 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 45 

ward, and, with a backward swing, reared up on his 
hind legs and slipped in the soft sand. Regaining 
his footing, he crashed through the underbrush be¬ 
side the trail and headed for the river. The mules 
bolted, and scattered into the alders in a panic as 
Darrow swore loudly and cut the horse again, more 
viciously than before. 

Nat’s face reddened. Gripping the reins so 
tightly that his knuckles were white, he shouted, 
“Don’t do that, Darrow! Don’t you do that again! 
We never have to whip Jake’s horses!” 

“I’m ridin’ this horse, boy,” Darrow snapped, 
“and I’ll ride it the way I want to.” He dug his 
heels into the horse’s flanks. As it started wildly 
into the river, Dick, at Nat’s command, wheeled, 
crashed through a thick growth of salmon-berry 
bushes, dashed in a half-circle, and closed in upon 
the frightened animal so Nat could reach its bridle, 
jerk its head downward, and lead it up the trail. 

His eyes narrowed as he looked at Darrow with 
disgust. Turning to the cruisers who had been 
watching the stampede, he said, “You wait here while 
I round up the mules.” With Pinkie following, he 
started back along the trail. 

The mules had not gone far, for he found them in 
the trail waiting for the bell-horse. As she came up 
to Dick, Nat leaned forward and rang her bell. The 
mules came confidently toward him and he had no 


46 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

further trouble getting them to follow him back to 
the bridge. 

The pack train passed slowly over the bridge and 
along the trail after leaving the river. The grade 
was very steep, and large rocks jutted out into the 
pathway, but the animals, cautious and sure of foot, 
went onward up the side of the mountain. 

Nat often looked back to see if the packs were 
slipping. Harrow was sullen and slouched in his 
saddle, but the other cruisers were more alert and 
seemed worried that their horses might make a mis¬ 
step and fall over the bank. 

Nat smiled to himself. “Hm-m, just wait till we 
get to Devil’s Curve. I’ll bet they’ll be afraid to 
round it.” 

It was uncomfortably warm; Nat took his ban¬ 
danna from his pocket and mopped his forehead, 
unbuttoned his blue cotton shirt, and took off his 
brown sweater and laid it across the saddle. “Any¬ 
way,” he thought, “I’m glad it’s not frosty, like it 
was yesterday, or the trail would be more slippery 
and harder to pass over.” Though he was respon¬ 
sible for the pack train and had to keep a watchful 
eye on it, he thoroughly enj oyed riding. He looked 
at the mountains in the distance, covered with great 
redwood trees, and at Little River, rushing and 
booming far below. 

When they arrived at a level stretch of trail near 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 47 

the top of the mountain Nat called, “Whoa!” All 
the animals stopped, as Pinkie’s bell ceased clang¬ 
ing at the command. 

Darrow sat bolt upright. “What’s the matter 
now?” he growled. 

Nat dismounted and started back along the line. 
“Got to see if these packs have been loosened. 
Sometimes the jolts cause them to slip. We’ll be at 
Devil’s Curve pretty soon now.” 

“Devil’s Curve!” exclaimed the cruiser who rode 
at the end of the train. “What’s Devil’s Curve?” 

“Oh, just a curve down there a little ways.” Nat 
spoke indifferently. 

After finding that the packs were secure he 
mounted Dick and started on. The downward trail 
was so steep that he had difficulty in staying in his 
saddle, which was so large that he kept slipping for¬ 
ward and from side to side. Pinkie’s bell dangled 
as she followed closely at Dick’s heels, and the other 
animals carefully picked their way after their leader. 

Around a point Nat saw a huge boulder jutting 
over the trail. He turned and shouted to the men, 
“There’s Devil’s Curve.” 

Darrow scowled. The cruiser behind him looked 
ahead at the dangerous line of the trail. “Do we 
have to cross that?” he asked. 

“We sure do!” Nat leaned forward to keep 
from bumping as Dick passed under a projection of 


48 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


the boulder. “Come on, Pink, 5 ’ he said, as a tiny 
pucker appeared between his eyes, for he was not 
sure they could pass. Recent storms had loosened 
rocks and washed out gullies, and the narrow path 
was dotted with mud-holes and slippery clay. He 
knew that the horses and mules, however, had gone 
over the trail many times and were familiar with the 
dangers ahead. 

He looked almost straight down at the river, two 
hundred feet below, and to his right at the rocky 
bank where water was seeping through the crevices, 
and called over his shoulder, “Ride carefully and let 
your horses have the reins.” 

Suddenly Dick stopped, and Nat saw ahead a 
large rock that had been washed directly into the 
pathway. Darrow flicked a half-smoked cigarette 
over the bank and roared, “What’s all the delay?” 

Nat pointed to the obstruction. “The trail is 
blocked and we can’t pass until we roll that rock 
off.” He dismounted and started forward. “I’ll 
need help,” he called, and the cruisers slid from their 
saddles and followed him, gingerly picking their way 
along. 

“Hm-m, that’s a good-sized boulder. Big as a 
barrel. We’ll have to get a couple of strong poles 
and pry it over the bank,” he told the men. 

Nat and the cruiser called “Jim” found a pole and 
started to pry it loose. The soft earth began to 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 49 

crumble away. Nat looked anxiously at the edge 
of the trail and wondered if it would all slide and 
leave the path so narrow that they could not pass 
over. If it did, they would have to return to Camp 
Redwood. He thought of Harrison and Jack Irv¬ 
ing, for whom he wanted to work. He’d hate to 
return to camp unsuccessful. Gritting his teeth, he 
bore down with all his might, as he cried, 

“Now, all together. Over she goes!” 

The rock slipped; then, with a crash it fell through 
the brush and over rocks and logs to the muddy river 
below. 

Nat was very sober as he watched the chunks of 
earth slide away from the edge of the trail. He 
pushed some of the loose dirt with his foot, then ex¬ 
amined the trail more closely. The main pathway 
appeared to be still solid. He walked across it. 
It was quite solid but narrow. 

“Well, how about it?” Darrow demanded. 

Nat was thoughtful. “We’ll go over it, of 
course.” 

The men mounted and sat waiting. 

Nat patted Dick’s neck. “Steady, boy, steady,” 
he said quietly; then, louder, “C’mon, Pinkie!” 

After Dick and Pinkie were safely across, Nat 
watched the other animals uneasily, but they care¬ 
fully followed in Pinkie’s tracks and soon were past 
the danger point. 


SO THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The pack train moved slowly down and around 
the curve. When Nat lost sight of the river he 
called back, “We’re around all right, now, and can 
take a rest.” 

“Well, I’m sure glad of that,” shouted Jim, as he 
came into view. “It’s just about the worst trail I 
ever saw.” 

Harrow and his men dismounted and sat down on 
a log to smoke; but Nat walked briskly along the 
trail to exercise his legs. As he came back the three 
men were talking earnestly in low voices and did not 
see him. Nat paid no attention to what they were 
saying, but he could not help hearing Carl ask, “Are 
you sure . . .”—he mumbled a name, but Nat did 
not get it— “. . . understands when and where to 
meet you?” 

“Sure, of course I am,” Darrow said. “He’ll 
take ’em to Eureka and . , .” —Nat heard some¬ 
thing about “records for Beckman. . . . Great 
Scott! If Harrison should get a hold of those!” 
Then he saw Darrow frown, and a quick look pass 
between the men, as if they thought he had been 
listening. 

To himself he said, “They needn’t think I’d try 
to listen. I’m interested in this pack train, not them, 
that’s sure.” But a few months later he wished that 
he had listened very closely. 

Nat looked at his watch. “Eleven o’clock. 




NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 51 

Guess we better be on our way. It’s easy going 
now, across this little valley, until we meet the river 
again and start climbing the mountain above it.” 

Leaving the logged-off area, the pack train en¬ 
tered the cool forest, where it was always twilight 
and silent during the day. 

Nat had real affection for the redwoods. His 
redwoods, he called them,—his real Paul Bunyan 
trees that raised their mighty heads almost three 
hundred feet into the blue sky. He was impressed 
with their tremendous age, and thought to himself: 
“Three thousand years old!” These very trees, 
Harrison had told him, were the oldest living things 
in the world. To him they were solemn and appall¬ 
ing; he noted their bare columnar trunks, the red 
bark, deeply furrowed, with ridges curved and 
twisted, and far aloft their branches, short and ir¬ 
regular, with flat rigid leaves. “Yes,” Nat thought, 
“old—wrinkled and old.” 

Ferns as tall as a man fringed the trail. Wild 
blackberry vines, spreading out over fallen logs and 
stumps, had clambered up to the lower limbs of the 
giant trees, forming a network of festoons. 

Nat led the train across the timbered valley, along 
a ravine, and up the mountain to a high plateau, 
where a small spot of ground had been cleared and 
a log cabin had been built near the edge of a deep 
gorge, the walls of which were almost perpendicular. 



52 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Little River, swollen by the winter rains, rushed 
through a narrow channel, making a booming noise 
as it dashed over the rocks. 

Stopping at a moss-covered watering-trough, Nat 
looked expectantly toward the cabin for his friend 
Hector, the mountain hermit. 

The invigorating odor of bay leaves filled the air. 
The boy pulled a handful, crushed them, and 
breathed deeply of their peppery fumes. He 
watched a little stream of water, cold and clear as 
crystal, that bubbled out to the sunlight through a 
crevice in the rocks and splashed into the trough. 

He heard the tinkle of bells as a herd of shaggy 
goats came trooping up; then he straightened in his 
saddle and his eyes sparkled as he saw white-haired 
Hector, old but stalwart, standing in the cabin door. 

The old man motioned for Nat to enter the pas¬ 
ture. The boy waved a reply, lifted the bars, and 
let Darrow and his men pass in. The cruisers dis¬ 
mounted and walked toward the cabin, but Nat did 
not join Hector until he had taken the mules and 
horses to the shed, filled nosebags with barley, and 
slipped them over the heads of the animals. He 
then took the bundle of papers and letters from 
Pinkie’s saddle and went to the cabin. 

“Well, my boy,” Hector said, as he grasped Nat’s 
hand and placed an arm around his shoulder, “I’m 
glad to see you. But where’s Jake?” 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN 53 

“Jake has rheumatism again, so Mr. Harrison 
sent me. Here’s some papers and mail that he told 
me to give you.” 

Hector took the bundle of papers and laid them 
on a bench near the door. 

Darrow blew rings of smoke into the air as he sat 
on the edge of the porch with his feet hanging over. 
One of the cruisers, Jim, stood leaning against the 
corner of the cabin while he smoked and gazed at 
Little River rushing through the gorge. Carl sat 
down on a low bench, with elbows on his knees and 
his chin in his hands. 

Hector looked inquiringly at Nat. “I don’t sup¬ 
pose you’ve had dinner?” 

Nat shook his head. “No, not yet. I thought 
we’d eat by the spring on the other side of the pas¬ 
ture. Higgins gave us some roast-beef sandwiches, 
doughnuts, and cake.” 

“You’d all better eat with me. I’ve cooked a pot 
of brown beans and I’ll make some coffee.” 

Darrow raised his bushy black eyebrows. “Why, 
yes, we’ll do that.” He dropped his cigarette, got 
up, and said curtly to Nat, “Go get our lunch and 
we’ll eat here.” 

Hector looked quickly at Darrow. His clear 
blue eyes narrowed and his scraggy white mustache 
bristled. “Hmp! You’ll find water and a wash 
basin on the back porch if you men want to wash 


54 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

up.” His heavy boots thumped as he walked across 
the porch and into the cabin. 

Nat hurried to the shed for the lunch. He was 
delighted to eat with Hector and even though he 
could not talk confidentially with him about his plans 
as he was accustomed to, because Darrow and his 
men were there, he could at least look at him. He 
liked to do that, for he was so friendly and wise. 
Hector had taught him much, and always encour¬ 
aged him to save his money for schooling. 

As Nat started back to the cabin he looked over 
the mountains toward Camp Redwood and won¬ 
dered if Micky were all right and if the Harrison 
girls knew about his leading the pack train. His 
eyes turned to the northwest. “ ’S funny, the sky is 
turning dark out over the ocean,” he told himself, 
as he hurried to join the men for dinner. 

As he stepped upon the porch he glanced at the 
bundle of papers which lay open on the bench. His 
eyes grew suddenly wider, for in bold black letters 
across the top of the front page was printed: 

LONE PINE LOGGING CAMP ROBBED 
and in smaller type: 

MONEY AND VALUABLES TAKEN FROM MEN WHILE 

THEY SLEPT 

Nat looked at the date. “Yesterday’s paper! 
It happened the night before last. The night I saw 


NAT LEADS THE PACK TRAIN SS 

the green light on the Lone Pine Trail! I’ll just 
bet a million that light had something to do with it. 
Just wait ’till I see Scotty! Hey, Hector!” he 
shouted as he went inside with the papers in his hand. 
“Did you see this? A robbery at the Lone Pine 
outfit! You know that’s about ten miles over the 
mountains from Camp Redwood!” 

The men were sitting on benches around the oil¬ 
cloth-covered table. A big bowl of steaming bean 
soup, a smaller bowl, and a plate had been placed be¬ 
fore each man. Nat laid the box of sandwiches, 
doughnuts, and cake on the table beside Hector’s 
plate. “Look, Hector! A big robbery!” he said 
loudly, as he spread the paper out before the old 
man. 

“Can’t read without my glasses, Nat. A robbery, 
you say? That’s too bad. I hope they catch the 
rascals.” 

“A robbery?” asked Darrow. “Prob’ly was an 
inside job. Can’t tell who’s around them lumber 
camps.” 

The other men said nothing. Hector motioned 
Nat to sit at his right. 

“Better eat now, Nat. Will you have coffee or 
milk?” 

“Milk.” Nat slipped down on the bench, picked 
up a pitcher, and poured milk into a cup. 

The meal was eaten in almost absolute silence. 


CHAPTER III 


THE STORM 

After dinner the men went outside and were sur¬ 
prised to find a change in the atmosphere. 

“It looks like a storm’s coming.” Hector squinted 
at the dark clouds massing over the mountain in the 
west. “Maybe you all better stay with me to¬ 
night.” 

“No!” exclaimed Darrow. “We’re not afraid of 
a little rain and we’re in a hurry to fix camp before 
night. Let’s move on.” He started across the pas¬ 
ture to the sheds. 

Nat wanted to stay with Hector, for he had heard 
the loggers tell about the terrible storms in the moun¬ 
tains and the danger from falling trees and limbs. 
But he did not want to appear timid, and bravely 
leaped into the saddle. 

Hector stepped up, patted Dick, and whispered 
to the boy so that the others could not hear, “Nat, 
go as fast as possible, unpack your mules, and hurry 
back here before dark. We’re going to have a ter¬ 
rible storm. Hurry!” 


56 


THE STORM 57 

Nat nodded and urged the pack train onward. 
“C’mon Pinkie,” he said loudly, as he looked at his 
watch. “One-thirty now, and a four-hours’ ride be¬ 
fore us. I guess we’ll have to hurry, all right.” 

They had not gone far when Darrow called out, 
“What’s that noise?” All stopped their horses and 
listened. 

“Sounds like a fiddle,” said one of the men. 

“Fiddle?” asked another. “Funny place for a 
fiddler. By George! It is a fiddler, and lie’s play¬ 
ing ‘Turkey In The Straw’!” 

Nat merely smiled to himself and said, “Get up, 
Dick!” 

They soon saw an old man with straggling hair, 
and whiskers that reached almost to his waist, com¬ 
ing up the trail. He had a fiddle under his chin and 
a bow in his outstretched hand. He wore an old 
broad-brimmed slouch hat. The legs of his over¬ 
alls were loosely tucked into the tops of his boots, 
which were run over at the heels and wrinkled at the 
ankles. His faded blue shirt was open at the neck 
and rolled to his elbows, revealing the sleeves of his 
red flannel undershirt, which flashed up and down 
and back and forth as he drew the bow across the 
strings of his fiddle. 

A shaggy little burro came jogging along a few 
paces behind him. 

“Hello there, Old Timer!” shouted Nat. 


58 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The fiddler stopped, pushed his hat back from his 
forehead, and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be blest if it 
ain’t my old friend Nat! How are y’ ?” 

“Fine, Old Timer! IIow are you?” 

“Oh, tolerable, jist tolerable. What ’er y’ doin’ 
away out here? Ain’t y’ lost?” 

“No,” Nat motioned to his right. “I’m heading 
for the cedar country with the cruisers.” 

Darrow shifted impatiently in his saddle. One 
of the cruisers leisurely rolled a cigarette and the 
other one stared curiously at Old Timer. 

“Well, y’ better hurry and git there ’cause it looks 
like a storm a-brewin’. I’m figgerin’ on stayin’ 
with Hector to-night. Move over, Jubilo, and let 
these fellers past.” 

Jubilo stepped aside and looked indifferently on 
as he hugged the bank while the pack train passed by. 

“See you later.’’ Old Timer spat vigorously over 
the bank and started on. 

“All right.” Nat straightened in his saddle. 
“Get up, Dick.” 

“Who in thunderation is that?” Darrow called to 
Nat as Old Timer and his burro went out of sight. 

“Oh, he’s Old Timer, a prospector. He lives on 
French Creek, over in Trinity County, about thirty- 
five miles on over the trail.” 

“What’s he doing over here? Prospecting?” 
Darrow’s black eyes looked keenly at Nat. 



“Blest if it ain’t my old friend Nat!” -Page58 
















THE STORM 59 

“No, he always comes this way to Eureka. That’s 
thirty miles west of Camp Redwood and makes 
about eighty miles in all for the old fellow, when he 
wants to sell his gold.” 

“Does he have much gold to sell?” Darrow glanced 
slyly at the cruiser behind him. 

“I don’t think so,” answered Nat. “He works 
the tailings. You know the hydraulic mines take 
out most of the gold and Old Timer just finds a little 
that they couldn’t catch.” 

Some ten miles farther on the party left the red¬ 
wood forest and followed a ravine through tall firs 
and hemlocks, and then started up the mountain. 
At the top Nat had a clear view of the thickly grow¬ 
ing cedars, firs, and pines, with here and there a hem¬ 
lock, and thickets of tan oak stretching as far as he 
could see to the southeast. 

Darrow called loudly: “This is where we’ll camp. 
Right here in this flat by the creek.” He dis¬ 
mounted and looked about. “Hurry up, there, kid! 
We want to get the tent up before it starts to rain.” 

Nat was untying the ropes that held the canvas 
tent to the pack saddle. He thought to himself, 
“You bet I’ll hurry I Fifteen miles back to Hec¬ 
tor’s, and it’s five thirty right now.” He said aloud, 
“Where do you want the tent?” 

“Right here by this pine tree, and we’ll build a log 
shack for a kitchen over there under that big cedar. 


60 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

One of you fellows build a fire and cook supper.” 
Darrow started to unroll the tent while one of the 
men helped Nat unpack the cooking utensils and the 
food. The other cruiser laid two flat rocks on the 
ground, about six inches apart, then gathered dry 
twigs and made a fire between them. At the creek 
he filled the coffee pot, and set it upon the fire. 
“Where’s the bacon?” he called. 

“Right here.” The boy took a side of bacon from 
a gunny sack and tossed it to him. 

Hearing a rumble of thunder in the northwest, 
Nat stopped unpacking for an instant and looked in 
that direction. 

Darrow shouted at him. “Great guns!” he 
flared. “Didn’t I tell you to hurry and help us fix 
camp?” 

Nat’s face flushed as he untied the ropes on one 
of the mule packs. His heart thumped against his 
ribs as he thought, “What will Darrow do when he 
finds out I’m going back to Hector’s to-night. And 
I’m not going to wait to help fix camp.” 

He sniffed the air. The pungent fragrance of 
cedar trees filled his nostrils. He liked the fresh 
odor of the woods just before a storm. He breathed 
deeply and glanced toward the camp fire. The fry¬ 
ing bacon and boiling coffee tempted him, for he 
was hungry and felt lonely. He thought of Old 
Timer and Hector. They probably were sitting by 


THE STORM 61 

the big fireplace in Hector’s cabin. He swallowed 
hard as he took the pack off the last mule and 
smoothed the blankets under the saddles. “I’ll have 
to go and go quick!” he thought. He stopped and 
listened. Drops of rain were falling through the 
branches of the trees. 

“Think we should have stayed with the old man 
back there to-night,” Jim said uneasily. 

“Say, what’s the matter with you?” Darrow an¬ 
grily faced him. “If you’re afraid of a little rain, 
go back with the kid to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow? Why, I’m going back to-night,” 
Nat said quickly. 

“Well, I guess you ain’t. You’re going to stay 
here and help us fix camp.” Darrow walked toward 
the mules. 

“Hector expects me to stay with him to-night. 
He has sheds for the mules and horses. And that’s 
where I’m going.” Though Nat spoke evenly, his 
hands trembled as he tightened Dick’s saddle girth. 
His heart beat faster as he hurriedly stepped up to 
Pinkie to see if her bell was secure. 

He saw Darrow watching him through narrowed 
eyes. “So you think you’re going?” he asked. 

“Yes, I’m going.” Nat swung into his saddle 
and dug his heels into Dick’s flanks as Darrow 
leaped forward. The horse jumped and snorted in 
surprise but did not take more than a step in ad- 


62 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

vance and Nat felt strong fingers grip his shoulder. 
He tried to shake them off and struck wildly at the 
arm that was dragging him to the ground. As he 
landed heavily on his feet beside Dick, Darrow 
loosened his hold and his lips curled in a sneer. “By 
George, you’ve been boss all day, but now it’s my 
turn. When I say stay, it’s stay!” 

Nat threw back his head and clenched his fists. 
“You may be boss of the cruisers, but you’ve nothing 
to say to me. I’m boss of these animals, and I’m 
going back to Hector’s!” 

Darrow laughed. 

“Aw, let the kid go,” Carl spoke up. “What’s 
the use of making him stay? We can get along 
without him. Ilarrison may not like it.” 

Darrow looked thoughtful for a moment. “All 
right, move on.” He turned to Nat and motioned 
in the direction from which they had just come. 

Nat quickly took an oil lantern and his rifle and 
fastened them to Dick’s saddle. He glanced at the 
tent, which looked ghostly white against the back¬ 
ground of darkening forest. The fire crackled and 
snapped, and shone with a red glare upon the faces 
of the cruisers, who were sitting around it preparing 
to eat. The trees swayed back and forth and drops 
of rain fell with a hollow sound upon the tent. The 
boy buttoned his sweater, pulled his slouch hat down 
tightly and swung into the saddle. “Get up, Dick,” 


THE STORM 63 

he said quietly, and turned to see if the other ani¬ 
mals with their empty saddles were following. 

The train started down the mountain at a trot, 
with Pinkie’s cowbell jingling with every step. 
The wind whistled mournfully through the trees. 
Bits of moss and twigs were blown helter-skelter. 

Nat groaned aloud. “Fifteen miles to Hector’s 
and it’s growing dark fast. I’m glad I brought my 
‘22’.” Then he laughed ruefully. “Guess a squir¬ 
rel rifle wouldn’t be much protection from the wild 
animals that live in these forests.” He almost 
wished he had not come. Then he thought of his 
tobacco-sack savings, and wondered if Scotty had 
found anything in his traps that morning. 

Nat stopped at the edge of the fir and hemlock 
forest; he dreaded to enter the redwoods. A streak 
of lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed by 
the rumble of thunder and a downpour of rain. The 
animals pricked up their ears and sniffed the air, 
as the howl of a distant coyote was carried to them 
on the wind. 

Nat was sick with fear. Should he turn back 
and spend the night with the cruisers and be laughed 
at by Darrow, or should he face the dark forest 
alone? He leaned forward, stroked his horse 
gently, and said aloud, “Dick, shall we turn back or 
go on to Hector’s?” 

Dick tossed his head to the right, up the trail. 


64 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“You’re right, Dick. We won’t turn back. 
What was it that Hector told me to remember ? Oh 
yes, ‘Whatever you resolve to do, do it quickly.’ ” 

Nat drew a match from his pocket and lighted the 
lantern. He sat very straight in his saddle, with his 
jaws tightly set, as he started into the redwoods. 
It seemed as if he were entering a black tunnel, 
where the tall trees might crash down any minute. 

The trail was becoming slippery. Small rocks 
were loosened by the storm, and the footing was not 
secure. Dick slipped and fell to his knees, regain¬ 
ing his footing with difficulty. The rain was falling 
in torrents. Flashes of lightning and the rumble 
of thunder filled the sky. The animals became ex¬ 
cited but Nat talked encouragingly to them and 
urged them onward. 

The air turned colder. The rain suddenly be¬ 
came sleet, and then large hailstones fell with such 
force that they stung painfully. The mules 
switched their tails and humped their backs. Nat 
could go no farther in such a fusillade of frozen bul¬ 
lets. He turned his train from the trail to find shel¬ 
ter under a thicket. His teeth chattered as he sat 
drenched and shivering in the saddle. 

The light in the lantern flickered, sputtered, and 
then he was in darkness—the impenetrable darkness 
of dense foliage! 

The animals, with their backs humped, stood 



THE STORM 65 

huddled together, frightened and dripping. Nat 
crouched closer to Dick. The smoke from the 
smouldering lantern wick stung his nostrils. The 
wind howled more wildly and the storm broke with 
terrific force. It seemed to Nat that he was travel¬ 
ing in a topsy-turvy world, where the lightning and 
thunder had ripped the sky wide open and the ocean 
was falling through. Huge limbs were torn from 
the trees and fell crashing. 

At last the storm abated, the lightning grew less 
frequent, and the peals of thunder more distant. 
The wind lessened. 

Nat, numb from cold, drew a match from his 
pocket and lighted the lantern. He blinked his eyes 
and grinned as he said aloud, “Boy, that isn’t much 
light but it sure looks good to me.” 

He counted his mules and horses. All were there. 
The clouds were breaking away and he could faintly 
see the moon and a few stars. 

“Good old Dick; let’s go, c’mon Pinkie.” The 
jingle of Pinkie’s bell sounded very cheerful to Nat 
as he started on. The trail was almost impassable 
in places. Large rocks had been washed into the 
pathway. Broken branches had fallen across it. 
The rain had cut ruts and gullies. For two hours 
Nat rode along, straining his eyes on the trail, dimly 
lit by the sputtering lantern. He shuddered to 
think what might happen if one of his animals 


66 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

stumbled and fell over the cliff to the rocks below. 
If Dick slipped and fell, well—he raised his face and 
gazed off into the blackness. There was a yellow 
dot of light. 

“Get up, Dick, get up!” he shouted. “There’s 
the cabin.” 

Hector and Old Timer rushed out, dragged Nat 
from the saddle, and pulled him into the cabin. 

Nat felt that he was a sorry sight as he stood by 
the big fireplace, bedraggled and tired; but his 
mouth twitched and spread into a grin as he flung 
down his soggy hat and ran his fingers through his 
wet hair. 

“By ginger, boy! We thought somethin’ tur- 
rible had happened to y’,” said Old Timer, as he 
rubbed his weather-beaten hands together. 

“Hurry and get those wet clothes off, Nat,” Hec¬ 
tor said anxiously. “I’ll get something for you to 
put on.” 

Nat rubbed his stomach vigorously. “Got any¬ 
thing to eat? I didn’t stay for supper with the 
cruiser gang and I’m mighty hungry.” 

“Eat? You bet we have! Jump into yer dry 
clothes and I’ll have somethin’ ready fer y’ in a 
jiffy.” Old Timer’s heavy boots thumped on the 
board floor as lie shuffled in the tiny kitchen. 

Nat, warm and dry, dressed in Hector’s clothes, 
which were so large that they touched him only in a 



THE STORM 67 

few places, and sat down to a supper of fried rabbit 
with thick brown gravy, squares of corn bread, 
baked potatoes, and a pudding with big fat raisins 
bursting through the brown crust. 

Hector fed the animals and put them under the 
sheds, and after Nat had finished his supper he and 
the two old men went into the living-room and the 
boy told of his experience with Darrow. 

“Why didn’t y’ hit ’im, Nat? The old bluffer!” 
Old Timer shook his fist m the direction of Har¬ 
row’s camp. 

“My boy,” said Hector, slowly shaking his head. 
“William Penn said, ‘Return no answer to anger, 
unless with meekness, which often turns it away,’ and 
he was right.” 

“Ah, bosh, humbug, and nonsense!” rejoined Old 
Timer, and he gave vent to his feelings by kicking 
the end of a log into the fireplace. 

Old Timer, rugged and educated by the hardships 
of pioneer life, and wise Elector, educated by books, 
as well as by living, talked on and on until Nat be¬ 
came drowsy and crawled into the pallet of blankets 
that had been prepared for him on the floor. 

Finally, Old Timer picked up his fiddle and 
played a merry tune. Hector yawned and went to 
bed. 

With half-closed eyes, Nat thought of his cabin 
and of Micky, and wondered if his little coon was all 


68 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

right. He guessed Scotty would let him sleep in his 
cabin. 

Old Timer finished his tune. Nat heard him tip¬ 
toe over to him, felt him tuck the blankets snugly 
around him, then closed his eyes as he heard him step 
over to the table and blow the light out with a loud 
puff. 


CHAPTER IV 


t 


MAD RIVER 

Snow, white and soft as down, lay everywhere, 
with still more coining, as Nat, delighted, stood in 
the doorway of Hector’s cabin, watching the falling 
flakes. 

“Oh, boy!” he thought, “I can’t go back to Camp 
Redwood to-day. Hector says it isn’t safe. This 
is great!” He put on his hat and sweater and 
walked leisurely to the sheds to feed and water the 
animals. 

At the goat sheds he filled the feeding-racks with 
hay and fed the horses, mules, Hector’s two burros, 
and Old Timer’s burro. Then he went to the cow 
shed at the side of the barn and fed the Jersey cow. 

He walked around the barn to the chicken house, 
fed the chickens, and, filling his pockets with wheat, 
returned to the shed, where he tossed the wheat out 
into the snow for the sparrows that flitted about. 
He spent the entire morning loitering around the 
sheds and barn. Finally Old Timer called him to 
dinner. Old Timer sat down upon a bench and 

69 


70 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

absent-mindedly ran a long forefinger through a 
little heap of trinkets that Nat had taken from his 
pockets the night before, when he had hung his over¬ 
alls up to dry. The heap consisted of a wad of tin 
foil, a bright button, a piece of colored string, a jack¬ 
knife, a couple of rubber bands, a cap from a soda 
water bottle, and an odd-looking stone. Taking 
the stone in his hand Old Timer looked it over closely 
and asked, “Where did y’ git this?” 

“I picked it up down by the river one day. 
Why?” 

“Don’t y’ know what it is?” 

“Yes, it’s a stone.” 

“A stone, fiddlesticks! It’s an arrerhead!” 

“Arrowhead?” Nat quickly looked at the stone 
with surprise and new interest. 

“Sure, it’s an arrerhead.” Old Timer turned it 
over in the palm of his hand. “See th’ leetle chipped 
places on it. See here, ther’s where th’ Injun that 
made it accident’ly broke off a corner, never finished 
it, an’ throwed it away.” 

“Just think.” Nat took the arrowhead carefully 
in his fingers. “Maybe a brave Indian warrior made 
it. 

“Yep, there was lots of Injuns around here in th’ 
early days. They had ranches down on th’ prairies 
along th’ Mad River.” He was silent for a time; ^ 
then he said, “I’ll tell y’ what I’ll do. Git yer hat 


MAD RIVER 71 

an’ coat on an’ I’ll go huntin’ with y\ It’s nice an’ 
quiet outside now ’cause it’s stopped snowin’ an’ th’ 
wind ain’t blowin’ a bit.” 

“You bet!” Nat turned to Hector. “Want to 
go with us?” 

“Thank you,” smiled Hector, as he turned a page 
in the book he was reading. “I prefer to stay in¬ 
side this kind of afternoon.” 

Old Timer broke a trail through the snow, and 
Nat, with the small rifle in his hand, trudged after, 
trying to step in his footprints. But Nat’s legs were 
somewhat shorter than Old Timer’s and would not 
reach so far, so he finally gave up and just walked 
on behind. They were very quiet. The only sound 
was the “drip, drip” of the melting snow as it fell 
from the trees, and the “scrunch, scrunch” of heavy 
boots in the snow. 

Suddenly there was a loud “Wh-s-s-s-s,” the 
whistling alarm signal of the quail, as dozens of 
them flew out of the thicket and down through the 
trees. 

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” Nat quickly grabbed 
Old Timer’s arm. “Those quail are Hector’s; he 
feeds them all winter. They might starve when the 
snow covers all the seeds if Hector didn’t have feed¬ 
ing places for them. He and I never shoot quail.” 

“Me, neither.” Old Timer nodded understand- 


72 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

ingly. “I wouldn’t harm a poor little helpless bird.” 

The hunters followed the tracks of rabbit, coon, 
and wildcat, but they could not find their makers. 
They had about lost hope of getting any game when 
Nat discovered deer tracks. These they followed 
down the mountain and along the river, then up over 
ridges and across ravines. 

“I think we’re purty close to him now.” Old 
Timer handed his six-shooter to Nat. “Be awful 
quiet an’ y’ might git a shot. Keep yer eyes open 
now fer I think he’ll be in that clump of myrtle over 
there. Here, gimme yer 22. Y’ got more chance 
to git ’im with this six-shooter.” 

They went quietly along, Nat’s heart beating 
faster as they neared the brush; but on reaching the 
thicket of myrtle they found that the deer had gone. 
They decided to return to Hector’s, and retraced 
their steps slowly and without enthusiasm. 

They came out on a rocky point near the river and 
Nat sat down upon a log. “Boy, Old Timer, I’m 
dog-tired. Let’s rest a while,” he said. 

Old Timer dropped down beside him and lighted 
his pipe. When he had finished his smoke he got 
up, tilted his head back, and looked at the sky. “We 
must be gittin’ on to Hector’s now, ’cause it’s gittin’ 
late. Looks like th’ storm’s over an’ we might be 
able to go to Camp Redwood to-morrow.” 

When they arrived at Hector’s, Nat went directly 


MAD RIVER 


73 


to the sheds. Hector, holding a pitchfork heaped 
with hay, stepped from the barn door. “Well, did 
you get anything?” he asked. 

The boy shook his head. “Not even a jack rabbit. 
May I help you feed the mules?” 

“Yes, if you’re not too tired. I’ve fed the goats 
and chickens. You feed the mules and horses and 
I’ll go in and get supper.” He handed the fork to 
Nat as he turned away. 

Nat stepped into the barn, thrust the fork into a 
pile of loose hay, lifted it, and walked back to the 
shed. Before he had time to toss the hay into the 
feed-racks, the brown mule stretched his neck over, 
grasped a mouthful, and started to chew noisily, 
while he switched his short tail back and forth. 

Pinkie snorted, tossed her head, and held her ears 
back. 

“All right, Pinkie.” Nat started back to the 
barn for more hay. “You and Dick are next.” 

It was growing dark, and a wisp of fog hung low 
over the river, hiding the cliffs below the cabin. 
Raising his eyes to the mountains, Nat looked long 
at the redwood trees, their tops piercing through the 
occasional blue blotches of mist that seemed to cas¬ 
cade down the mountains’ sides. The horizon was 
dotted with snow-covered trees that stood out softly 
against the grayish-blue sky. Nat patted Dick 
sharply. “It looks like a city, Dick!” he said with 


74 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


sudden feeling, “a big city!” He stepped from un¬ 
der the shed into the snow. “San Francisco,” he 
thought, “looked just like that from the ferryboat, 
the evening that Father and Mother and I crossed 
the bay on our way to Camp Redwood.” He smiled 
to himself. “We saw the shore line through the fog, 
and the great buildings, some that looked as if their 
tops had been squarely sliced off, and others with 
tall towers. Paul Bunyan buildings, that seemed 
to reach the sky!” 

Jamming his fists into his pockets, he shook his 
head slowly and started to the cabin, kicking the 
snow with the toes of his boots at each step. 


CHAPTER V 


NAT RETURNS 

It was clear and cold the next morning when Nat 
started on his return trip to Camp Redwood. Old 
Timer, with his fiddle in his hand, and with Jubilo 
following, led the way. He preferred to walk, and 
went nimbly down the narrow trail. He did not 
wear a coat, for by walking rapidly he could keep 
warm. He lived much in the open. With his burro 
to carry the food, a couple of blankets, a shovel, a 
pick, and a pan, he had prospected every sand-bar, 
niche, and cranny along the Trinity River and its 
tributaries. He slept wherever he happened to be 
when night came. Like a fox he had dug burrows 
beneath logs, beside boulders or between the roots of 
huge stumps, where, rolled in his blankets, he would 
pass the night. 

Nat wondered at Old Timer’s agility. “Good 
Old Timer,” he thought. “Always happy, isn’t he, 
Dick ?” He shifted in his saddle and looked back to 
see if the pack train was following. He was glad to 
be taking the animals back with their packsaddles 

75 


76 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

empty, for the trail was slippery and dangerous. 
His eyes sparkled as he listened to the crackle and 
snap of the crust of the snow as the hoofs of the ani¬ 
mals broke through. 

The trail through the valley under the redwoods 
was beautiful to Nat. He saw windfalls, some lean¬ 
ing upon other trees and some lying under drifts of 
snow, with here and there a patch of green moss 
showing through. The ferns, some green, some old 
and brown, were bent to the ground by the weight 
of the snow. The wild blackberry vines looked as 
if they were long streamers of white lace draped over 
the logs and underbrush. 

At Devil’s Curve the travelers found that the re¬ 
cent storm had widened the breach left by the boul¬ 
der that had been forced over the bank. The ground 
was soft, but after working for an hour, during 
which the upper bank was dug away and filled in 
with rock, Nat decided that it was safe to cross. 
They did so and went on toward the top of the moun¬ 
tain. 

At noon, when they halted to eat their dinner, Nat 
had difficulty in finding enough dry wood to start a 
fire, but finally dug some out from under a log. Old 
Timer unpacked his frying pan and coffeepot, 
opened two cans of beans, cut some jerked venison, 
and busied himself preparing the meal. 

After dinner they rested for an hour while Old 


NAT RETURNS 77 

Timer played a merry tune on his fiddle. When 
they started on again Nat pulled his hat far down 
over his eyes to protect them from the glare of the 
sun upon the snow. 

Coming out on a point at the top of the mountain, 
he raised his head and looked eagerly in the direction 
of Camp Redwood, where he could plainly see the 
cottages along each side of Little River and the cook¬ 
house with two rows of cabins behind it. He gave 
Dick a sharp pat as he said aloud, “We’re almost 
home, Dick, and now we’ll have a chance to ask 
Scotty what he thinks about that Lone Pine robbery. 
Bet he has been thinking about the green light, too! 
I know that had something to do with it.” 

Nat was anxious to talk with Scotty, for he 
thought that possibly the ones who had committed 
the robbery had been caught. This, he felt, might 
clear up the mystery of the light on the trail. 

His heart beat faster as he thought of Micky. 
He wondered if Scotty had composed any new Paul 
Bunyan jingles, and, of course, he was anxious to 
know if anything had been caught in his traps during 
his absence. 

He was disappointed when they reached the rail¬ 
road track, where he had a clear view of Patsy Har¬ 
rison’s home, for not a soul was in sight, and he had 
wanted to make a grand entrance into camp. Prob¬ 
ably Patsy and Peggy would never know that he 


78 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

had taken the cruisers’ outfit to the woods. Oh, 
well— 

Suddenly he heard voices, and gazed hopefully 
down the track. Then he sat bolt upright, with his 
head held high, as he saw Peggy run out to the gate 
when she saw Old Timer. 

“Oh, girls, here’s Old Timer!” She pushed the 
gate open and thrust her fists into her sweater pock¬ 
ets. “And, O my gracious! Look who’s coming 
along behind him!” 

Three or four girls came shouting and running 
from a knoll behind the house, where they had been 
making a snow man, and all stared open-mouthed 
at the sight that greeted them. 

Nat, sitting erect on Dick, with eyes shining, was 
looking straight ahead, as he led his string of mules 
and horses. He did, however, glance at the group 
to see whether Patsy, with her big blue eyes and rosy 
cheeks, was there. Yes, she was swinging on the 
gate, and she was looking straight at him with round 
eyes and with mouth pursed in surprise. 

When Dick came in line with the gate the girls 
called out, “Hello, Nat!” 

The boy turned his head slightly toward them 
and tried to seem casual in his answering salute— 
“Hello, girls!” 

Patsy stopped swinging and asked, “Where’ve 
you been, Nat?” 



NAT RETURNS 79 

He crooked his thumb over his shoulder and with 
a backward jerk of his head answered carelessly, 
“Over the ridge. Giddap, Dick!” 

That was all. He did not look to the right nor 
to the left again but sat straight in his saddle as he 
passed Old Timer, who had stopped to talk to the 
girls. 

At the cook-house he was given a rousing welcome. 
Higgins hurried to him as he swung down from 
Dick and stepped upon the back porch. “We’re 
glad you’re back, Nat!” he exclaimed. 

Mrs. Higgins stepped through the doorway and 
put a plump arm around his shoulder. “Where 
were you during the storm?” she asked quickly. 
“We hoped you were with Hector. Were you, or 
did you stay out in the woods with the cruisers?” 

“I told them you’d get back all right,” interrupted 
Emma, who had come from the dining-room. “Did 
you have a good time?” 

“Sure! Is Scotty here?” Nat peered through 
the door, then turned as he heard him running up the 
steps from the cellar. 

“Right here!” Scotty bounded through the door 
at the other end of the porch and shouted, “Missed 
you a lot, partner. Sure am glad you’re back!” 

“I’m glad I’m back, too!” Nat laughed. He 
looked through the door to see Adams Cluff, quiet 
and stern in his big white apron and white cook’s 


80 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


cap, stirring something in a big kettle on the range. 

Scotty hastened to tell him that two skunks had 
been caught in his traps during his absence. 

“Good luck, Scotty. But where’s Micky?” 
Nat anxiously looked around for his pet. 

“Oh, he’s here some place, I guess.” Just then 
Old Timer joined the group. 

“Well, here’s Old Timer!” Scotty brushed a 
flour-covered hand upon the corner of his white ap¬ 
ron and shook Old Timer’s hand vigorously, as he 
slapped the old man upon the back, exclaiming, 
“You wise old owl! How are you? Did you walk 
in through all this snow? How’s mining? Found 
any pockets full of gold yet?” 

Old Timer tilted back his hat and scratched his 
ear thoughtfully. “No-o, haven’t found any pock¬ 
ets.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “And 
minin’s tolerable, jist tolerable.” 

“You must be cold and tired,” interrupted Mrs. 
Higgins. Then turning to Nat, she continued, 
“You and Old Timer come in and have some hot 
gingerbread. We just took it out of the oven.” 

“Gingerbread! Um-m, you bet! C’mon, Old 
Timer!” Nat and the old man followed Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins intp the kitchen. The boy spoke to Adams 
Cluff as he passed him, and the cook, without even 
a glance, answered almost inaudibly. Just as Nat 
stepped into the dining-room there was a thud on 


NAT RETURNS 81 

the floor, as Micky, recognizing his voice, bounded 
through the kitchen, with his little pointed nose held 
high and black eyes shining. 

“Hello, Micky.” Nat reached down to pick him 
up. “Did you miss me?” He held the coon in his 
arms and gazed around. “Everything looks about 
the same.” 

“So it is, Nat.” Mrs. Higgins took up a pan of 
gingerbread and started to cut large squares. 
“You’ve been gone quite a while, but we haven’t 
made any changes.” 

Nat couldn’t wait any longer to find out about the 
robbery, so when Old Timer, Emma, and Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins w r ent into the dining-room, he went over to 
Scotty, who was slicing bread for supper. “Did 
they get caught?” he asked quickly. 

“Who?” 

“Why, the bandits, of course! Didn’t you read 
the paper day before yesterday?” 

“Why, yes. I guess so. I always read the pa¬ 
per,” Scotty said with surprise. “Why?” 

“Didn’t you read about the robbery?” 

“Oh, yes, sure! You mean the Lone Pine outfit?” 

“Yes.” Nat nodded and waited for Scotty to 
say something more, but the latter, without another 
word, went on slicing the bread. 

“Well, don’t you remember?” the boy questioned 
impatiently. 


82 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Scotty turned his pale eyes upon Nat. 

“Remember what?” 

“The green light!” Nat whispered with a secretive 
look. 

Scotty nodded slowly. “By George, I do re¬ 
member you seein’ a light out on the trail that morn¬ 
ing. I wonder if there is any connection between 
that and the robbers.” 

“I think so. Have they caught ’em yet?” 

“No, and they’re not likely to, for those fellows 
are all pretty slick; and you know, Nat, there are a 
lot of men in these woods—men of all kinds and 
descriptions, bad men and good men. And once 
in a while we run across an ex-convict or a man out 
on parole. Naw, they won’t catch ’em.” 

“Do you know what I’m going to do?” Nat asked. 
“I’m going to take a walk up there in the morning 
to see if I can find any tracks or anything!” 

“I guess you’re the boy that could find ’em if 
anybody could. You’ve had enough experience 
hunting for tracks along the river. It always was 
beyond me how you could trail animals and things 
and see tracks where there didn’t seem to be any. 
But I guess it wouldn’t do any good to go up there 
now. The storm probably washed the trail slick 
and clean.” 

“Yes, I guess that’s right,” Nat agreed thought¬ 
fully. 



NAT RETURNS 83 

Just then Emma ordered Nat and Old Timer to 
sit down while she brought them a big pitcher of 
milk. “You know, Nat,” she said, “Scotty can 
peel potatoes very well, but not nearly so well as you 
can.” 

“Potatoes! Hm-m!” He had forgotten all 
about potatoes, and now Emma had to go and spoil 
everything. But, after all, he really didn’t care, 
for he was home! The cook-house was the only 
home he had; and there was Micky, and a limitless 
supply of gingerbread. He heard Jake, the packer, 
coming into the dining-room. 

“Hello, there! I see you got back all right,” said 
Jake, as he walked to the table at which Nat and 
Old Timer were eating and sat down beside them. 

Nat passed a plate of gingerbread to the packer. 
“Have some? It’s right out of the oven.” 

“No, thanks, don’t think I will. Have any trou¬ 
ble with the mules?” 

“Not a bit!” Nat answered heartily. 

When Nat and Old Timer had finished eating 
they went with Jake to the back porch. 

Jake stepped up to Dick and patted him gently 
on the nose. “You and Nat got along pretty well 
didn’t you, boy?” Turning to Old Timer, he said, 
“Better let me take Jubilo along to the sheds for 
the night. Pretty cold for him out in the snow un¬ 
der a tree.” 


84 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“B’lieve I will, Jake. Much obliged. I’ll walk 
along with y\ C’mon, Jubilo!” He started up the 
railroad track with his burro jogging along behind. 
“See you after a while, Nat,” he said, glancing 
over his shoulder. 

The mules switched their tails and the horses 
pawed the ground as they impatiently waited for 
Jake to take them to the stable. 

As the latter mounted Dick and started away he 
called, “You’re all right, Nat. Couldn’t have done 
better myself.” 

Nat stood on the porch until they had turned up 
the track and then hurried to his cabin with Micky 
bounding after him. He found everything just 
as he had left it. He hung his “22” on the wall above 
his cot. The other one he called Old Timer’s cot, 
because the old man always slept there on his visits 
to Camp Redwood. 

Nat lifted the lid of an old trunk, took out a clean 
white and blue cotton shirt and blue denim overalls 
and laid them upon the unpainted table at the end of 
the room. He then built a fire in the heating-stove 
so that the cabin would be warm for him after tak¬ 
ing his bath in the shower room across the board 
walk. 

After his bath, Nat combed his hair and put on 
clean clothes, then picked up Micky and went into 
the cook-house. In the pantry he put on his big 


NAT RETURNS 85 

white apron, put the little coon outside, and regret¬ 
fully closed the door. As he went into the kitchen, 
Scotty, who was slicing a steaming brown pot-roast 
that he had taken from a large kettle on the stove, 
paused a moment and looked at Nat in surprise. 
“We don’t expect you to work to-night,” he said 
quietly. 

“Why not?” the boy asked. 

“Aren’t you tired?” questioned Scotty. 

“No, not very.” 

“But Mrs. Higgins will help, just as she has been 
doing since you left.” 

“No,” Nat shook his head slowly. “I’d just as 
soon. And I know Cluff expects me to,” he whis¬ 
pered. 

Cluff came out of the pantry with several cans of 
peaches in his arms. “Scotty, I’ll ’tend to th’ meat 

an’ you open these cans,” he ordered. “Nat, you 

* 

wash the kettles as we dish up, just as you always 
do, an’ don’t forget that th’ dishes have to be washed 
after supper.” Picking up a pan of sliced meat, 
he shoved it into the middle one of the three ovens 
to keep it warm until supper-time. 

Nat dragged the big kettle off the range, car¬ 
ried it across the kitchen, and set it upon the drain- 
board. He turned the hot water into the sink full 
force, and the steam rose in a cloud; then he reached 
for the bucket with the perforated bottom which 


86 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


held the soap, and plunged it into the water until a 
thick soapy foam rose almost to the brim of the sink. 
As he turned off the water there was a footstep at 
the kitchen door and he heard Harrison say, “Hello, 
Cluff, is Nat—oh, here you are; I didn’t expect you 
to be working, Nat.” 

Harrison, the superintendent, tall and thin, in 
khaki breeches, tan shirt, and high-top laced boots, 
went hurriedly across the kitchen. He was clean 
shaven, tan of face, and had dark hair with a sprink¬ 
ling of gray at the temples. “Jake told me you 
were here,” he said in a low, smooth voice. “When 
did you get back?” 

“About an hour ago,” Nat told him. 

“Did you have any trouble on your trip?” 

Nat hesitated, but only for an instant. “No!” 
he shook his head. 

Harrison looked at him quickly. 

“Where’d Darrow fix camp?” 

“About fifteen miles beyond Hector’s, near Fir 
Creek.” 

“Did they get fixed up before the storm?” 

“Got one of the tents up. I didn’t stay with 
them that night.” 

Harrison raised his eyebrows. “You didn’t?” he 
said, in a troubled voice. 

“No, I went back to Hector’s. You know he has 
sheds for the animals.” 


NAT RETURNS 87 

“Hm-m. Sure. That was all right, Nat.” 
Harrison turned away, but halfway across the 
kitchen he paused and glanced back over his shoul¬ 
der at the boy. 

“By the way, Nat, to-morrow I’ll tell the time¬ 
keeper to give you the same wages as Jake gets for 
his trip. Let’s see. How long were you gone,— 
three days ? That’ll be about fifteen dollars.” 

Fifteen dollars! Nat’s eyes opened wide. 
“Thank you!” he said gratefully. 

“That’s all right, Nat. You earned it.” Har¬ 
rison smiled as he went out. 

Nat grabbed a scrubbing brush and started 
briskly to scrub the kettle. “Fifteen dollars! 
Whew! That’ll make my savings come up to sev¬ 
enty-five dollars. Just wait till I get a hundred! 
Boy, when I do I’ll go right in to Eureka and put it 
into a bank and get one of those little books like Mr. 
Higgins’ that they give you to keep track of your 
money. Fifteen dollars for three days! Did you 
hear that, Scotty?” 

“Sure. That’s fine,” Scotty answered heartily. 

Nat glanced at the clock on the shelf above the 
sink. He thought to himself, “It’s nearly supper¬ 
time and Higgins and Mrs. Higgins’ll be here in a 
few minutes. Just wait till I tell them! And Old 
Timer, too!” His mouth broadened into a grin, 
and he sang loudly: 


88 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“Said the sailor to the soldier, 
‘Won’t y’ gimme a chew?’ 
Said the soldier to the sailor, 
‘I’ll tell y’ what to do.’ 

“ ‘Save up yer money 

An’ wash out yer socks, 
An’ y’ll always have tobaccy 
In yer ole tobaccy box!’ ” 


CHAPTER VI 

IN THE COOK-HOUSE 

The last day in February was a stormy one. The 
rain, falling in a steady downpour, caused Little 
River to rise over its banks. 

As Nat looked out through the kitchen doorway 
he could see old logs and brushwood carried along 
by the muddy, swift-running water that had risen 
within five feet of the narrow foot bridge which 
spanned the river from the railroad track beside the 
cook-house to the opposite bank. He was very 
thoughtful. Four of his mink traps, which he had 
set at the edge of log jams, had been washed away. 
During the three weeks since he had returned from 
his trip into the woods with Darrow and his men, 
nothing had been caught in his traps. He wished 
he could make more extra money, as he had by pack¬ 
ing the cruisers’ outfit; or, he mused, if he could have 
a whistlepunk job he could save more and go to 
school sooner. He had talked about it to Jack Irv¬ 
ing, boss of Camp 25. Maybe Irving had forgot¬ 
ten. Well, he would mention it again! 

•89 


90 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

He stepped out on the porch. It had stopped 
raining, and ragged clouds were racing across the 
sky. The sun shone brightly in irregular spots on 
the mountain in the distance. The small new trees 
in the logged-off area glistened in the sunlight and 
looked very green. The tall weather-bleached 
stumps, some a hundred feet high, looked ghostly 
white and unreal. It seemed to him that the scurry¬ 
ing clouds, by casting their tattered patches of shad¬ 
ows upon the mountains, were trying to drive the 
sunlight away. 

Nat stepped to the edge of the porch and looked 
toward Hector’s. He thought of Old Timer, who 
had gone to Eureka, sold his gold, and returned to 
stay overnight with him. He had wanted him to 
remain until the storm had passed, but the old man 
was anxious to get home and had left the day before, 
promising to stay with Hector if it continued to 
rain. 

Cluff’s coarse voice rang unexpectedly through 
the cook-house. “Where’s that boy? Have you 
seen him, Scotty? It’s eleven thirty an’ th’ train 
crew’ll be here fer lunch! He hasn’t got th’ milk 
on th’ tables yet!” Then, in a louder voice, he 
called, “Hey, Nat!” 

Nat hurried in, took down from the shelves four 
white pitchers, and went over to the big milk cans 
standing just inside the door. 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 91 

“Well!” Cluff looked sourly at him. “WhereVe 
you been? Dreamin’ as usual, I s’pose. You’d 
better hurry or you’ll not have th’ milk on and th’ 
bread sliced before dinner.” 

Scotty grinned. “I’d help you, Nat, but I’ve got 
to make this salad dressing, and I’m late now.” 

As Nat went about his task, Scotty watched him 
sympathetically. “Hey, Nat!” he called, after a 
time, “How do you like this one?” Without wait¬ 
ing for a reply, he recited: 

“It took six dozen good-sized hens 
Just three weeks long, and then, 

They laid an egg that was big enough 
For Paul’s gigantic men. 

“It stood on end in the kitchen, 

Then each morning regularly 
The men marched by with dippers, 

And helped themselves, you see.” 

Emma came in from the back porch. Her small 
brown eyes widened and her hands flew up. “Land 
sakes alive! And I see somebody helping himself 
to some sugar.” She hurried through to the dining¬ 
room but was not quick enough to catch the culprit 
before he had knocked a sugar bowl and a pitcher 
of milk over in his haste to get away. A stream of 
milk and sugar ran down the center of the table. 
Salt and pepper shakers rolled off, and catsup flowed 
in a red circle upon the white oilcloth. 


92 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Git, you scallawag!” Emma cried. “You’d 
better keep out of my dining-room.” She grabbed 
at Micky as he bounded past her into the kitchen, 
where he pawed at Nat’s boot for protection. 

“Micky,” exclaimed Nat, “how did you get in 
here, and what did you do that for, anyway?” He 
picked up the little coon and after shaking him 
soundly went out and locked him in his cabin, after 
which he hastened into the dining-room to help 
Emma reset her table. 

Emma was very angry. “Nat,” she said sharply, 
“you’ll have to keep that animal out of the dining¬ 
room. He’s a regular nuisance. We surely will 
be late to-day!” 

“I’ll help you, Emma.” Nat picked up the sugar 
bowl and pitcher and started into the kitchen to 
refill them. 

“You’ll help! Who’s going to do your work while 
you’re helping me? Who’s going to slice the bread 
and fill the milk pitchers?” Red catsup splashed 
on the bib of her short white apron and the sleeve 
of her blue gingham dress. “Now look at that! 
Ruined! The stain’ll never come out!” She 
dabbed at it quickly as she glanced through the 
dining-room door and into the pantry. “Hm-m!” 
She stood with hands on her hips. “Look!” she 
said, through narrow lips. 

Nat stepped to the pantry door and peered in. 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 93 

He saw Micky carefully step along a shelf from 
can to can without knocking any over, then hop down 
to the floor. For a moment he was amazed. “How 
in the world did you get back here?” he said. Then 
he recalled that he had left the cabin window open. 
“Oh, I know now!” he exclaimed, as he picked up 
the coon. 

Cluff growled, “Take him to your cabin, and don’t 
let me catch him in this kitchen again!” 

“All right, Mr. Cluff.” Nat glanced at Scotty, 
who was rapidly beating eggs and oil in a bowl, and 
again went out, put his pet in the cabin, and closed 
the window and the door just as Engine 33 pulled 
up to the cook-house and stopped. He ran into 
the kitchen, reached for the dipper, and started to 
fill the milk pitchers. 

“Gracious sakes!” exploded Emma. “Here’s 
the train crew now. Thank goodness the crew of 
Number 30 is going to eat at Camp 24 to day.” 

Bill Fleming, the conductor, was the first to enter 
for dinner. “Hello, there!” he said, as he walked 
past Nat. “How’s the boy?” He flung his coat 
and hat on the floor behind the range. “How’s 
chances for something to eat, Cluff?” He hitched 
up his blue denim overalls and took his short¬ 
stemmed pipe from his mouth, slipping it into a 
pocket of his green and black plaid shirt. 

“Well, you’re early, but guess we can fix you 


94 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

something.” Cluff turned a sizzling thick steak 
on the top of the range. “Got a table ready fer th’ 
train crew, Emma?” 

“No, not quite,” answered Emma from the din¬ 
ing-room. 

Shorty, the engineer, and the rest of the crew, two 
brakemen and the firemen, were not long in follow¬ 
ing Fleming into the kitchen. Shorty pulled his 
watch from the bib of his overalls. “Eleven forty- 
five. Dinner pretty near ready, Scotty?” 

Scotty stepped to the range and lifted the lid of 
a big aluminum kettle. “The soup’s ready; good 
substantial soup, just like that which Pea Soup 
Shorty made for Paul and his loggers.” 

“What kind of soup is that, Scotty?” Shorty 
peered into the kettle. “Smells good. Must be a 
good soup if Paul and his men et that kind, for Paul 
certainly fed his men well.” 

Nat looked up and grinned as Scotty stirred the 
soup with a long-handled spoon. “But Pea Soup 
Shorty didn’t stir his soup that way,” he said 
knowingly. 

“Gosh, no!” exclaimed Scotty, as he raised his 
bushy eyebrows and sang in a deep voice: 

“In Paul’s enormous kitchen 
There was a great big lake, 

Brimful of steaming pea soup 
That Shorty loved to make. 


95 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 

“It was no easy task to stir 

This soup lake so gigantic; 

To find a ladle big enough 

Poor Shorty was quite frantic. 

“He thought it out in every way 
And planned it con and pro, 

And then an idea crossed his mind 
Quite reasonable, and so 

“A Mississippi River boat 
With paddles on its side 

Was bought to stir the lake of soup 
So deep and long and wide. 

“The plan proved most efficient, 

The peas swirled far and fast; 

And when the soup was ready 
The whistle boomed a blast.” 

“What whistle boomed a blast?” Emma called 
from the dining-room. 

“Why, the whistle on the boat that stirred the 
lake of soup in Paul Bunyan’s kitchen,” Scotty 
told her. 

Then Shorty asked, “Do you folks happen to 
know who always pulled the whistle cord on the 
boat?” 

Nat, with a milk pitcher in each hand, stared in¬ 
quisitively at Shorty. “No,” he said, slowly. 
“Who?” 

Shorty patted himself on the chest as he took a 
deep breath. “I did!” he said grandly. 


96 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Oh, is that so 1” Scotty’s sandy mustache bristled. 
“I suppose that’s why you’re so handy at tootin’ the 
whistle on the old 33, eh?” 

“Yes, sir! That’s it. You know I worked sev¬ 
eral months for Paul when he was loggin’ off 
the—” 

“Say,” interrupted the fireman. “How about 
eats?” 

“Go ahead and eat.” Cluff turned to Emma. 
“Get th’ soup on fer these fellows, they’re in a hurry 
as usual.” 

Nat helped Emma carry the heavy pitchers of 
soup from the kitchen to the dining-room, while 
Scotty mashed potatoes and sang: 

“When spuds were served to the loggers, 

All mashed and heaped in a pile, 

They were dipped with a big steam shovel 
And served in mighty fine style.” 

“And how about the gravy?” Fleming asked. 

Like a flash Scotty struck a low note and went on: 

“A great big heavy water tank 
Was filled plumb brimmin’ full 
And fixed with wheels upon it 
For old Blue Babe to pull. 

“Then around the loggers’ table 
He made one trip a meal, 

And served the steaming gravy 
With ardor, zest, and zeal.” 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 97 

“Some ox!” Fleming said as he walked into the 
dining-room and sat down at a table. 

Scotty snorted: “Why, that mountain-blue ox 
was just exactly forty-two axe handles and a plug 
of chewing tobacco wide between the eyes. When 
he ate his bales of hay, it kept six men busy picking 
the baling wire out of his teeth.” 

“Yeh? I guess so.” Fleming reached for some 
small round crackers and dropped them into a bowl 
of soup. 

Shorty, the engineer, sat directly across the table 
from Fleming. “Yes, sir, that’s correct!” And as 
Nat brought in two large bowls of mashed potatoes, 
he asked, “How about it, Nat?” 

“Sure thing!” Nat grinned. “Say, ever hear 
about the time Paul sent the logs down the Mis¬ 
sissippi River?” 

Shorty took a ladleful of soup from a pitcher to 
his right, then looked up sharply. “No, tell us.” 

“Well,” Nat said, as he stood at the end of the 
table with his arms crossed, “one year Paul rafted 
his whole season’s cutting of logs down the Missis¬ 
sippi River, but when they arrived at New Orleans 
the prices had gone down so low that it looked as 
though he were going to lose a lot of money on them. 
Paul felt awful bad about it because you know he 
was pretty thrifty and he didn’t want to sell at such 
a loss. He couldn’t leave them there, so Brim- 


98 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

stone Bill, Babe’s keeper, just led old Babe right 
into the river (it wasn’t even knee deep to old Babe), 
and that blue ox just drank so much water that the 
logs all floated back to Paul’s camp again.” 

“Boy!” exclaimed Shorty. “Babe sure was a 
great help to Paul!” 

“You bet!” Nat agreed. “Y’know, Paul nearly 
lost Babe once. When he was logging in Oregon 
he had two honey bees, Buzz and Fuzz. They were 
as big as mules and he always kept them caged, ex¬ 
cepting in honey season, when he let them out to 
gather honey.” His eyes swept the group of men 
as he went on jubilantly. “One day, a flunky ac¬ 
cidentally left the door of their cage open. They 
flew out, made straight for Babe’s shed, and just 
naturally stung him almost to death. It made him 
so sick that Brimstone Bill couldn’t find any food 
to agree with him and they all thought he was going 
to starve to death. Finally Paul thought of an 
idea. He waded right out into the ocean and herded 
a school of whales into Coos Bay; and they fed 
whale’s milk to Babe. But that didn’t seem to help 
him any, and he just kept wasting away. Paul and 
Brimstone Bill were almost crazy with worry and 
anxiety and they didn’t know what to do. By this 
time, the bees had been caught and put back into 
their cages. Then Brimstone Bill happened to 
think that Babe was awful fond of honey. Well, 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 99 

they just naturally made those bees work so hard, 
day and night, gathering honey for Babe that they 
wore their wings all ragged and couldn’t fly any 
more until they had sprouted new ones. The honey 
agreed with Babe so well that it wasn’t long before 
he was back at work again as strong as ever.” 
Though Nat’s eyes twinkled with mirth, he spoke 
very seriously, for he knew that all Paul Bunyan 
yarns must be told with perfect earnestness. 

“By George!” exclaimed Shorty, “I remember 
that well! That was the time that Buzz and Fuzz 
had to check their stingers with Sourdough Sam 
so they couldn’t sting any more.” 

“Yes, that’s it!” Nat went on quickly. “And 
after they had sprouted new wings Sourdough Sam 
made them gather honey for the lumberjacks to put 
on their knives when they ate, to keep the peas from 
rolling off!” 

Shorty snickered and the rest of the crew laughed 
outright, but Nat hurried into the kitchen, for just 
then Scotty called, “It’s twelve, Nat. Ring the 
gong.” 

Nat hurried out to the steps at the front door, 
where a six-foot iron rod, bent into the shape of a 
triangle, had been hung by a rope from the roof. 
With a small iron rod he struck the triangle a series 
of sharp blows. Ding, dingity, ding, dangity, ding! 

Nat liked this best of anything, for he tried to 


100 THE WHISTLEFUNK 

play different tunes on the triangular rod at each 
meal, as the men filed into the dining-room. He 
said that his tunes were the loggers’ favorite music 
because they meant “food.” 

At the first tap of the gong Snappy Dillon, tall 
and stern-featured, without even a glance at Nat, 
shuffled into the dining-room, and several dozen stal¬ 
wart lumberjacks hurried from their cabins where 
they had been waiting. Nat liked to watch them as 
they crowded into the enclosed porch, where they 
hung their soggy rain-hats before entering the din¬ 
ing-room. He looked longingly at their short 
canvas rain-coats, their bright plaid mackinaws, and 
their heavy canvas pants, with the legs turned up 
to form wide cuffs just below the tops of their high- 
top waterproof shoes. All the lumberjacks had 
calks in the soles and heels of their boots, that made 
tiny holes in the board floor as they walked along. 

Nat looked at the badly worn center of the steps, 
where the sharp calks of many heavy boots had worn 
a trail. He thought that if he should ever get the 
whistlepunk job, he, too, would wear calks in his 
boots to keep from slipping off the stumps and logs. 
Several of the men spoke to Nat and the boy smiled 
and answered each one. 

As the last logger filed in, Nat gave the gong a 
final bang with the rod and followed. He liked 
to hear the clumping and scraping of heavy boots 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 


101 


as the men walked to the tables, and to see the men 
take their places and pull the long benches to the 
tables with loud bumps. 

For the next few minutes he was very busy help¬ 
ing Emma and Scotty wait on the loggers. As 
quickly as the dishes were emptied he carried them to 
the kitchen, where Cluff refilled them, to be carried 
back again. He refilled bread plates and vegetable 
dishes and carried empty soup bowls to the sink, 
where he stacked them upon the drain-board, to be 
washed later. He listened to the clinking and clat¬ 
tering of heavy dishes as the men ate hurriedly so 
that they might rest a few minutes before going to 

i 

work after they had returned to the woods, a mile 
from Camp Redwood. 

Shorty, the engineer, was the first to finish and to 
go out. The rest of the trainmen soon followed 
him to the engine, which was standing on the track 
beside the cook-house. 

Nat heard three short blasts of the whistle, which, 
he knew, was the signal to back up; then came the 
familiar clang of the bell as the fireman pulled the 
bell cord, and the “33” went out of sight. 

After all had finished their dinner and gone, Nat 
took a small uncooked fish, an apple, and a generous 
slice of cake into his cabin for Micky. Just as he 
came out of the doorway he met Mrs. Higgins. 

“Is dinner ready, Nat?” she asked. 


102 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“Yes, m’am, and the men have all gone/’ 

Mr. and Mrs. Higgins and the cook-house crew 
always ate after the others had finished, so Mrs. Hig¬ 
gins went into the dining-room, where Emma had 
set one end of a table for them. 

A little later Nat stood at the sink, washing dishes. 

He looked out of the window. It was raining. 
He heard a long, loud blast of a donkey engine’s 
whistle at Camp 25 on the top of a mountain across 
the river, and said to himself, “One o’clock. The 
loggers are going to work. Wish I was with ’em out 
in the rain. It’s better’n this, and anyway if it 
rains too hard they can all come in. I’ll say washin’ 
dishes is no job for a man. Wish I was a whistle- 
punk.” He looked longingly toward the moun¬ 
tains. 

Scotty interrupted his musings: “I’ve lost my 
turkey wing. I know I left it right here on this 
shelf but it’s gone, and now I haven’t anything to 
dust my range with. Anybody seen it?” he asked. 

“I haven’t,” Nat said in a far-away voice, for al¬ 
though he was busy swishing plates around in the 
foamy dishwater, his mind was out of doors as he 
went on with his work, washing the cups and piling 
them upside down upon the towering irregular piles 
of plates and soup bowls. 

Suddenly the bowls began to slide! Nat grabbed 
wildly at them, but his hands were wet and the dishes 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 


103 


were slippery. With a loud clatter some of the 
plates and soup bowls slid over the edge of the drain- 
board into the sink and some slid out on the table 
where Cluff was kneading dough. Others fell with 
a crash to the floor, breaking into pieces as they 
landed. The cups followed the other dishes to the 
floor, their handles flying in every direction. One 
of the cups rolled to the cook’s feet and others made 
a crooked line to the range. 

For an instant Nat stood with narrowed eyes and 
tightened lips. Then, as he felt his face flushing, 
he stooped to pick up the pieces. 

Scotty turned quickly at the first crash. “Guess 
your check this month won’t amount to much after 
the money for all those dishes is deducted,” he said, 
as he raised his bushy eyebrows and pursed his lips. 

Emma bounded through the dining-room door. 
“For land’s sakes, what’s the matter?” And, as she 
looked at the broken dishes, she cried, “Well, that’s a 
pretty mess, I must say!” 

Nat glanced from Scotty to Emma, then hack 
again, as Jake, the packer, stepped into the kitchen. 

“What’s all the racket? Looks like a cyclone’s 
struck the kitchen,” said Jake. 

“Nat,” roared Cluff, “this’ll haf to stop! You’re 
on duty in th’ kitchen now; not out in th’ woods 
punkin’ whistles. If it ain’t that coon of yours 
causing a rumpus in th’ kitchen, why then it’s you. 


104 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

An’ I say it’s got to stop. An’ I don’t mean 
maybe!” 

Nat bit his lip. “Yes, sir,” he said, sheepishly. 

Emma hurried to the back porch for a dust-pan 
and broom. “Wait a minute, Nat, we’ll sweep up 
the pieces.” 

Scotty stooped to help, while he sang in a deep 
baritone: 

“Sourdough Sam made some doughnuts, 

Each the size of a reel of cable; 

Then Babe was hitched to a thousand-ton sled 
And hauled them to the table.” 

“A what?” Jake stepped up beside the range. 
“A thousand-ton sled? That’s a good-sized sled, 
I’ll say!” he exclaimed. 

“Yes, sir!” Scotty held the dust-pan while 
Emma swept the pieces of china into it, and con¬ 
tinued : 

“Ole, the blacksmith, made this sled, 

It took him just a minute 
To make it big enough for Babe, 

With a billion rivets in it.” 

Jake rubbed his chin. “You don’t say!” he said 
soberly. 

Nat smiled, for he thought there was no end to 
Scotty’s cleverness in composing Paul Bunyan 
jingles. 


IN THE COOK-HOUSE 105 

After the broken dishes had been cleared away, 
and Emma and Scotty had gone back to their work, 
Jake stepped to the sink, where Nat had begun care¬ 
fully to wash the remaining stacks of dishes. 

“Say, Nat,” he said, “just where’d that fellow 
Darrow make camp?” 

Nat looked at him quickly. “It is time for you 
to take supplies out, isn’t it? Are you going in this 
rain?” He thought with distaste of the night when 
he had been caught in the storm in the redwoods, and 
wondered how the cruisers fared. 

“Yes, I’ve got to go, rain or shine. But it looks 
like it might clear off to-night.” Jake peered out 
the window. 

Nat picked up a knife and started to trace, upon 
the drain-board, the trail which they had followed. 
“Of course, you remember we went to Hector’s? 
Here’s Hector’s.” He pointed to a small round 
stain on the drain-board. “You take the trail 
around the pasture and down the canyon. Just fol¬ 
low along until you come out of the redwood. You 
know the place.” 

Jake nodded. 

“Don’t take the left-hand trail.” 

“By George! That’s just what I’d have done. 
I thought they went northward!” 

“No.” Nat shook his head. “Take the right- 
hand, southward trail up the ravine, clear up to the 


106 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

top of the mountain, to the headwaters of Fir Creek. 
That’s where you’ll find the camp.” 

“All right, thanks, Nat.” Jake turned to Cluff. 
“Have you got a list of the grub for Harrow?” 

“Yes,” Cluff answered. “I’ll git it. It’s in th’ 
pantry.” He got it and handed it to Jake. 

“You jist as well keep it, or leave it with th’ store¬ 
keeper.” 

“Sure. I’ll do that. Guess I’d better be gettin’ 
down to the store now so the clerk can put up the 
order this afternoon.” 

As Jake started out, Nat called. 

“Be careful at Devil’s Curve. You know the 
trail slid out while I was at Hector’s, but Old Timer 
and I fixed it the best we could on our way back.” 

“All right, s’long.” 

“Good luck, Jake.” Nat thought of his trip into 
the mountains and of the check which he had re¬ 
ceived for leading the pack train. He frowned and 
his mouth was grim. He estimated that the money 
he had made on that trip would just about pay for 
the dishes he had broken. He sighed, then looked 
out of the window. A heavy mist was falling in the 
narrow valley, but as he raised his eyes he saw a rag¬ 
ged spot of sunlight upon the tall stumps and the 
green young trees across the river. He smiled rue¬ 
fully. 


CHAPTER VII 

RUNAWAY 

The next morning, when Nat went up the river to 
look over his trap line, he found that the water had 
fallen about two feet, leaving a rim of mud on each 
bank. More logs had been washed down to the al¬ 
ready crowded masses of crisscrossed timber that 
formed the occasional log jams. Brushwood and 
bark floated around in the swirling ponds of muddy 
backwater, dammed by the jams. 

He found no trace of the four mink traps that had 
been washed away, but all of the skunk and wildcat 
traps which he had set on the mountainside, between 
the railroad track and the river, were safe. He de¬ 
cided to leave them all in their places until later, 
when he should bring fresh bait, reset them all, and 
take four down to the river, where he thought he 
could catch another mink. 

The sun shone brightly and was very warm as the 
boy walked back to Camp Redwood. When he 
reached his cabin he found Micky sound asleep on 
the foot of his cot. “Wake up!” he scolded. “Why 

107 


108 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

don’t you sleep nights and keep awake days? 
You’ve no business roaming around nights, anyway. 
Wake up! wake up!” He playfully cuffed the little 
coon and rolled him around on the cot, but the little 
animal just growled and whined. 

“All right, I’m going out in the sunshine.” 

Micky bounded to the floor and was right behind 
Nat as he started out. 

“I thought so!” Nat exclaimed laughingly, as he 
walked around the corner of the cook-house to the 
front steps. “Now here’s a good place to sleep, 
right here on the step in the warm sun. C’mon, 
Micky.” 

He took off his sweater and sat down on the top 
step. “Here, lie down on this if you’re so sleepy.” 
He folded the sweater and laid it upon the step near 
his elbow. Leaning back against a porch-post he 
started to whistle the “Song of the Whistlepunk,” 
but Micky was wide awake now, and pulled and 
clawed at his master’s shirt sleeve. 

Just then the dispatcher, who dispatched all the 
logging trains and speeders over the logging rail¬ 
road, called from his office across the track, “Oh, Nat, 
come here a minute, will you? And bring Micky 
along.” 

Nat, wondering what could be wanted, lifted 
Micky to his shoulder and went to the office, a small 
building of two rooms, built over the embankment 


RUNAWAY 109 

and supported by large piling driven into the river. 

“Nat, Mr. Shannon wants to see you.” The dis¬ 
patcher, a tall young man, wearing horn-rimmed 
spectacles and a green celluloid visor over his eyes, 
smiled pleasantly as the boy entered. 

“Mr. Shannon!” Nat exclaimed delightedly. “I 
didn’t know he was here!” As he stepped through 
the doorway, he said, “ITow’d do, Mr. Shannon.” 

Mr. Shannon, president of the Shannon Lumber 
Company, shook Nat’s hand warmly. He was 
well past middle-age, smooth shaven and slightly 
stooped; but there was a certain ruggedness about 
him that made Nat think of a man whose life had 
been lived in the open. He was very kindly and was 
always interested in the welfare of his employees, 
for he had worked most of his life in the woods, 
climbing up from whistlepunk to president and 
majority owner of the Shannon Lumber Company. 
Though his home was in San Francisco he often went 
to Mallard, on Humboldt Bay, where his large saw¬ 
mill was situated. From there, whenever he wished, 
he could easily make the twenty-mile trip on a 
speeder to Camp Bedwood. 

“How’s Micky? Does he know any new tricks?” 
Shannon asked. 

“Yes, sir, he does,” Nat said proudly, as he 
dropped Micky down on a table. “Now shake 
hands with Mr. Shannon.” 


110 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Micky sat up on his haunches, blinked his little 
black eyes, and offered a paw. 

Shannon took the paw in his hand. “Well, well,” 
he said, very much pleased. “You’re a fine fellow, 
and not afraid of strangers, are you?” 

“Sometimes he doesn’t like strangers, and bites 
and growls, but I think it’s because they tease him. 
He never gets angry with anyone who’s good to 
him,” Nat said. 

Micky jumped when the telephone rang sharply. 
The dispatcher stepped to his desk to answer the 
call. Micky growled loudly. 

“S-s-h, Micky, be quiet while the dispatcher’s talk¬ 
ing.” Nat’s glance went around the room, and he 
thought that he, too, would like to have a big office 
just like this, when he finished school and was estab¬ 
lished in something worth while,—perhaps Superin¬ 
tendent of a Redwood Camp, like Mr. Harrison, 
whom he admired. 

The dispatcher, having finished his conversation 
on the telephone, picked up a report and went over 
to the adding machine. 

Nat turned to Shannon. “ Would you like to hear 
Micky speak?” 

“What!” Shannon stared at the coon in surprise. 
“Can he speak?” 

“Yes, sir, he thinks he can; and he can cry, too!” 
Nat took Micky’s forepaws in his hand and helped 



RUNAWAY 111 

him to stand upright on the table. “Now, speak, 
Micky, speak!” he ordered. 

Looking straight at him, Micky uttered a long, 
growl that ended with a sharp note. 

ell, I’ll be blessed!” ejaculated Shannon. 

Nat chuckled proudly. “Now cry, Micky, cry 
loud!” 

Micky whined a pitiful note that resembled a 
moan. 

“And he can wash his face, too! Wash your 
face!” 

Micky put his paws up to his face and rubbed them 
over his eyes and nose and up over his ears, just like 
a kitten. 

“That’s pretty good!” Shannon smiled. 

“Oh, he always washes his face with water when I 
give it to him.” Nat was always pleased when any¬ 
one seemed interested in Micky. 

As the telephone bell rang again the dispatcher 
looked up from the adding machine. “Answer that, 
will you please, Nat? You’re nearer to the ’phone 
than I am.” 

“Sure!” said Nat, taking the receiver from 

the hook. “Hello! Who is it? Just a minute, 

\ 

please.” Then, turning to the dispatcher, he said, 
“It’s Mr. Harrison. He’s home and he wants to 
know if Mr. Shannon is ready to go with him to see 
the camp bosses.” 


112 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Mr. Shannon spoke up. “Tell him yes, I’m wait¬ 
ing for him now.” 

Nat squared his shoulders and spoke very dis¬ 
tinctly into the transmitter. “Yes, sir. He’s here 
in the office and says he’s waiting for you.” Hang- 
ingup the receiver very carefully, he said, “Mr. Har¬ 
rison says he’ll be right down.” 

“All right, thanks, Nat.” Shannon sat down in 
the swivel chair at the desk to wait. 

A little later Nat heard a speeder stop in front 
of the office, and presently Harrison entered. 
“Plello,” he smiled, “how’s the coon?” 

“Fine!” Nat answered, cheerily. 

Turning to Shannon, Harrison said, “I’m ready 
to go with you to see the camp bosses now. Any 
trains on the road, dispatcher? We want to go to 
camp 25.” 

“Number 33 will be coming in soon,” the dis¬ 
patcher replied. 

“All right, we’ll wait at the switch-back this side 
of the Twin Bridges until she comes in. I’ll call in 
for a clearance from there.” 

As Shannon followed Harrison out he said, 
“Good-bye, Nat. Take good care of Micky.” 

“Yes, sir, I will. Good-bye.” He slipped into 
the chair that Shannon had just vacated. 

The telephone rang again and the dispatcher an¬ 
swered it. “Hello! Engine 30,” he repeated; 


RUNAWAY 113 

“how many loads? 22? O.K. Clear road, come 
in all the way.” He jotted down the information 
on his record sheet. 

Nat glanced at the sheet. “Twenty-two loaded 
cars? That’s pretty good, isn’t it?” 

“You bet!” The dispatcher picked up a bundle 
of letters and snapped a rubber band around them. 
“Just about time for Fleming to call in from Camp 
25. I’ll have him wait at—Oh, here he is now, I 
guess.” He answered the telephone once more. 
“Hello, Fleming?—Engine 33 with 18 loads. O.K. 
to the Twin Bridges switch.” He hung up the re¬ 
ceiver and spoke to Nat. “Will you stay in the of¬ 
fice for a few minutes ? I don’t think there’ll be any 
more calls now; if there should be, you take the mes¬ 
sage and make note of it.” 

“All right,” the boy replied, feeling very impor¬ 
tant and looking hopefully at the telephone. “You 
behave, now, Micky,” he said, as Micky started to 
paw at the typewriter. 

The dispatcher had been away but a little while 
when the bell rang. Nat jumped for the receiver 
and heard Fleming’s voice shouting, “She’s running 
away! She’s running away! Shorty can’t stop 
her!” 

“The train’s—” 

Again Fleming shouted, “33 with a string of 
loads! What’s the matter? Can’t you under- 




114 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

stand?” He swore wildly. “30’s coming in from 
Camp 24 and they’ll crash at the Twin Bridges 
switch 1” Then Nat heard him hang up the receiver 
with a bang. 

For an instant the boy stood as if petrified. He 
remembered the orders the dispatcher had given both 
conductors. His teeth came together with a click. 
A runaway! A collision! Both engine crews 
would be killed! What should he do? His brain 
was in a whirl. He heard a series of loud “toot, toot, 
toots” coming from the direction of Camp 25. Sud¬ 
denly he thought of the Twin Bridges switch and the 
abandoned logging road up the river! He sprang 
to the door, then out to the track. 

“Runaway!” he shouted, “Higgins! Scotty! 
Runaway!” He hesitated no longer but ran swiftly 
up the middle of the railroad track, past the cook¬ 
house, past the Harrisons’. He pictured the Twin 
Bridges, and the railroad, to his right, coming down 
the mountain from Camp 25, and across the lower 
bridge, where it met the road upon which Number 
30 was coming in from Camp 24, to his left. “But 
the other bridge!” he thought desperately. “The 
upper bridge! And the switch!” This raced 
through his brain. If he could only get there be¬ 
fore the runaway, turn the switch, and send the rac¬ 
ing cars across the other bridge and up the aban¬ 
doned road! 


RUNAWAY 


115 

He heard the rumble of heavy cars and could al¬ 
ready see them racing down the mountainside. The 
thought of Shorty and the rest on the runaway train 
made him fairly leap forward. 

A short cut! Down the embankment would help! 
Along a trail through the soggy brown leaves be¬ 
neath the alders. A huge black stump loomed up 
before him, but he dashed madly around it, only to 
run against a large fallen alder. Leaping over this 
he ran on and on. It was only a quarter of a mile 
from the office to the Twin Bridges, but Nat felt as 
if he had gone miles. His muscles were tired and 
his lungs ached so badly he could hardly breathe. 

Suddenly a terrifying thought took possession of 
him. What if the switch were locked? Sometimes 
switches are locked, and the train crews carry the 
keys. He groaned aloud. “It’s got to be un¬ 
locked!” he prayed. “It’s got to be unlocked!” 

The rumble of the oncoming cars grew louder. 
Nat’s breath came in gasps as he ran on. The river 
to cross! He thought of an old log where he had 
crossed many times while making the rounds of his 
trap line. But what if it had been washed away! 
He ran up the river a little way. It was there, cov¬ 
ered with slippery moss, but the farther end had 
rotted and broken off, leaving it jutting only two- 
thirds of the way across the swirling water. 

Nat’s mouth was firm. He would jump it! He 


116 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


must do it! He hesitated a moment for breath, then 
running out almost to the end of the log, he leaped. 
His heart stood still for a moment as he hung in mid¬ 
air above the treacherous whirlpools. Then he 
landed on his hands and knees in the ooze and slimy 
rocks at the edge of the river. 

Frantically grabbing a root he pulled himself 
from the water, but his body ached so that he could 
hardly move. He gazed despairingly at the Twin 
Bridges, only fifty yards away. With a hopeless 
gesture he cried, “I can’t make it! I can’t!” But 
the next moment he whispered, “Shorty, I—I will 
make it!” He staggered to his feet, then up the 
embankment. He had yet to cross the railroad to 
reach the switch! 

The steady roar had now grown into a bedlam, 
and the whirling wheels and squeaking brakes 
screamed an ominous challenge. For a breathless 
instant Nat looked up at the heavily loaded, rocking, 
rushing cars that were almost on him—then leaped 
across the rails, grasped the handle of the switch, 
and pulled with all his might. 

“Unlocked!” he panted, as he turned the handle, 
slipping the switch points into place against the 
rails. There was a deafening roar as he crouched 
against the bank, barely three feet from the spin¬ 
ning wheels, from which the rush of air, laden with 
sticks and rocks, almost swept him under the cars. 


RUNAWAY 117 

With one hand he clung desperately to the switch 
handle, while the other was hooked around a branch 
of a fir tree growing on the bank. 

A piece of flying bark grazed him. He laughed 
crazily. “Safe!” he shouted. He laughed again 
—but the laugh froze on his face. A look of terror 
came into his eyes, for as the first car shot upon the 
bridge it jumped sidewise, seemed to poise in the 
air for a second, then dropped with a crash, followed 
by a medley of roars and loud thuds as car after car 
leaped through space and tons of logs tore down the 
mountainside, sending up clouds of dust as they dug 
deep through the mud to the dry earth. Splintered, 
death-dealing missiles were hurled into the air as the 
last cars piled up at the end of the bridge and engine 
33 crashed into the tangled mass of wreckage not 
two hundred feet away. Then all was still—save 
for the “s-s-s-s” of escaping steam. 

Nat didn’t stop to think of the danger to himself 
from the steam, or from a possible explosion, as he 
bounded down the track, wildly calling, “Fleming! 
Shorty!” He could think only of his friends, and 
that he might be able to help them. 

The engine was lying on its side, with the pilot 
jammed against a splintered flat-car. Steam rose 
from the front of the boiler and drifted away in a 
cloud. Fortunately for Nat, no steam was escap¬ 
ing into the cab. Fie bounded to the engine, clam- 



118 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

bered over the oil car so he could peer down into the 
mass of wreckage. His heart seemed to stop as his 
glance hurried from the fireman’s seat down to the 
engineer’s seat, crushed and broken. “Shorty!” he 
shouted. His eyes glistened with joy, for his 
friends were not there. “They’re not even here!” 
he said, incredulously. “I thought sure they’d been 
killed!” For a moment he was overcome, as he 
fully realized that his friends had escaped. 

But when he heard engine 30, with its string of 
loaded cars, coming down the grade and around the 
turn on the opposite side of the river, he jumped 
down and walked back to the switch. 1STot until then 
did he think of the awful mass of wreckage he had 
caused by turning the switch that sent the train of 
logs over the bridge. He groaned aloud as he 
glanced back. He was sickened. He felt empty, 
and his body was limp; he crawled under the fir tree, 
closed his eyes, and tried to lie back against it. But, 
unable to lie quietly, he sat with his elbows on his 
drawn-up knees and his head in his hands. 

He felt something soft and furry rub against his 
leg. Reaching out he picked it up and held it 
tightly in his arms. “Micky!” he cried, chokingly. 
“You followed me here! Micky—old pal—we’re in 
for it—now.” 

The brakes squeaked, the train stopped, and the 
slack was taken up with a clanking noise. Nat heard 



RUNAWAY 


119 


it all, but did not move. He heard running feet, 
excited voices, and muttered oaths, as frightened 
men ran across the lower bridge to search for the 
crew of the 33 in the wreckage. They found no one. 

“By George, they must’ve all jumped off!” ex¬ 
claimed a brakeman. 

“You didn’t think they were fools enough to stay 
on, did you? I didn’t think we’d find them here.” 
The engineer joined the fireman, the conductor, and 
the brakeman, not far from Nat. He could see 
them through the branches of the little fir tree and 
could hear them talking, but he did not move. 

“ Wonder what Harrison’ll say about this ?” The 
conductor looked sorrowfully at the mass of debris. 

“What can he say?” the fireman asked. “Here 
comes a speeder. I’ll bet it’s Harrison now!” 

Nat looked over to the railroad across the river. 
He could hear the loud “put-put-put” of a rapidly 
driven speeder, and as it shot from behind some trees 
he heard the brakeman say, “It is Harrison!” 
Then, “Who’s that with him? Good glory! It’s 
Shannonr 

Nat’s face whitened and his hands trembled as he 
stroked Micky. He feared he had done wrong. 
“Maybe it would have been better if I had not turned 
the switch,” he thought; “. . . but the other train, 
the 30 coming down the other side . . He didn’t 
know. 


120 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The speeder whizzed across the lower bridge and 
stopped. Harrison jumped off and ran up the 
track to the group of men. “Quite a mix-up, boys!” 
he said quickly. “How’d it happen? Anyone 
hurt? No? Where’s the other crew? Anyone go 
up the track to find them? They might have 
jumped and injured themselves!” 

The conductor glanced up the track. “We don’t 
know anything about it. We just came.” 

Shannon stepped from the speeder and joined 
them. “No one hurt? Good!” he exclaimed feel- 
ingly. 

“We don’t know for sure. Maybe the crew 
jumped!” 

Harrison turned to the engineer. “Take my 
speeder and run up toward 25. Keep going till you 
find them.” 

The engineer started at once. “All right, I’ll 
hurry!” he said. 

“Say, what I’d like to know,” the conductor 
looked around, puzzled, “is this: Who turned that 
switch?” He walked to the switch to examine it. 

Nat’s heart pounded as he sat very still with his 
head in his hands. 

The other men followed the conductor. Harri¬ 
son nodded; “Some one certainly did turn it, for it’s 
always lined up for the lower bridge!” 

“That’s very queer,” Shannon said gravely. 


RUNAWAY 121 

The brakeman grasped the handle of the switch 
and turned it, and the speeder whizzed by. 

Micky whined. 

The five men turned abruptly. 

“Nat!” ejaculated Shannon. “How’d you—” 

“Say, kid,” broke in the conductor, as he hurried 
to him, “you weren’t on that train!” 

“How’d you get up here? You’re not hurt, are 
you?” Harrison took Nat by the arm and lifted 
him to his feet. 

“No, sir. I’m not hurt a bit.” Nat rubbed his 
mud-covered hands on his overalls and, stooping, 
tried to brush the mud from his knees. 

“But I thought we left you in the dispatcher’s of¬ 
fice!” exclaimed Shannon. 

Nat looked at him very soberly. “You did, sir,” 
he said quietly. 

Harrison looked thoughtful for an instant. 
“Nat,” he asked, “did you throw that switch?” 

Nat stood very straight. “Yes, sir, I did,” he an¬ 
swered in a tremulous voice, as he looked sidewise at 
the pile of logs and the wreck of the 33. “I’m-m 
mighty glad no one was killed.” 

“But how’d you get here?” 

“I ran over the short cut through the alders.” 
He explained briefly about answering the telephone 
in the office. 

“Do you realize, boy,” Harrison said quietly, “that 



122 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

you probably saved the lives of the engineer and fire¬ 
man on Number 30?” 

“I was riding in the engine, too!” broke in the con¬ 
ductor. “Those logs sure would have done for us! 

•—You’re all right, Nat!” 

“I’ll say he is!” the fireman spoke up in a quiver¬ 
ing voice. 

Shannon stroked his chin slowly. “Hm-m! Un¬ 
usual! Very unusual,” he said thoughtfully. 

“It wasn’t anything.” Nat felt better now. He 
ran his fingers through his hair. “ ’Most anybody’ve 
run to turn the switch so’s to send the runaway over 
the old track up the river.” 

“Yes,” Harrison said, “I guess so, if they’d 
thought of it!” 

“That’s it,” the fireman added, gravely, “if they’d 
thought of it.” 

A little later the speeder returned with the crew 
of the 33 all safe and sound. Nat, Harrison, and 
Shannon hastened to them to find out just how the 
train happened to run away. 

As Fleming stepped from the speeder Harrison 
asked sharply, “How’d this happen, Fleming?” 

“Well,” Fleming replied, “we shoved into 25 sid¬ 
ing with five loads, and coupled into thirteen loads. 
While I was talking to the dispatcher at the tele¬ 
phone, getting a clearance into Camp Redwood, one 
of the brakemen knocked off the brakes. Shorty 


RUNAWAY 123 

was busy as usual, oiling around, when all of a sud¬ 
den the loads started. Shorty jumped into the cab 
and set the air brakes, but the brakeman had failed 
to cut in the air when he coupled into the thirteen 
loads, so he couldn’t hold eighteen loads with only 
five cars with air in them. Shorty whistled for hand 
brakes, but it would be useless to set them on a train 
of eighteen loads after it had started down that six 
per cent grade, so the crew jumped, and I guess it’s 
a good thing for them that they did.” 

“Yes,” Harrison said slowly, “I guess it was the 
only thing to do.” Turning to the conductor of en¬ 
gine 30, who had joined the men at the switch, he 
told him to have his engineer whistle for the section 
men to come and fix the track, and then take his train 
into Camp Redwood and tell the dispatcher to send 
out the “Galloping Goose,” a huge locomotive crane, 
to pick up the wreckage. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE GALLOPING GOOSE . 

Nat went over to the pile of debris. Some of the 
logs had rolled into the river but most of them had 
piled up in a mud-splattered, tangled mass of car 
wheels, brake rods, and splintered planks. He 
drew a deep breath as he stood there thinking about 
the terrible destruction. He shivered at the thought 
of how such a seemingly trivial blunder as failure 
to connect the air hose on one of the cars could result 
in such disaster. 

He heard a step behind him, and turned to see 
Shorty. “ She’s an awful mess,” said Shorty. 

“Yes.” Nat shook his head sadly. “It certainly 
is a heap of rubbish.” 

“Oh, I don’t mean the logs and cars. I mean the 
old 33. Her boiler’s caved in, her headlight and 
sand dome are missing, and—gosh—there’s nothing 
left of her a’tall.” 

“And her cab’s in splinters and her oil tank’s 
smashed into smithereens,” Nat added. “D’you 
think,” he questioned, “she’ll ever run again?” 

124 



THE GALLOPING GOOSE 125 

“Uh-huh. They’ll fix her up in the shops at Mal¬ 
lard, but it’ll take a little time.” 

Nat still felt a little uneasy for fear he hadn’t done 
the right thing, and a tiny pucker appeared between 
his eyes when he saw Harrison coming toward him. 

“Mr. Shannon and I are going back to Camp Red¬ 
wood before we go up to the logging camps. Want 
to go with us?” the superintendent asked him. 

“I’d like to stay and watch the Galloping Goose 
for a while. I don’t have to be at the cook-house till 
eleven,” Nat answered. 

“All right. But be sure to stay in the clear, for 
a cable or something might break. It’s never safe 
to be too close when she’s picking up logs.” Har¬ 
rison hesitated a moment and he appeared thought¬ 
ful. “Do you know, Nat,” he went on, as he placed 
a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I think it was mighty 
fine of you to run up here and turn that switch. 
You saved the lives of several men.” He turned 
and quickly walked away. 

Nat heaved a sigh of relief as he watched Harrison 
go toward the speeder. He had been terribly wor¬ 
ried for fear the superintendent would think he had 
done the wrong thing, but it all seemed different 
now, and not such an awful disaster, after all, for 
no one had been killed. 

How he did like to watch that old Galloping Goose 
pick up logs and swing them around in the air, just 


126 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

as if they were straws! He sat on a big log, with 
Micky beside him, humming softly as he waited for 
the enormous crane. He had not long to wait, for 
it soon came slowly up the railroad track, chugging 
and rattling. Nat smiled to himself and thought the 
lumberjacks had given it a most appropriate name, 

for it really did look like a gigantic black goose, wob- 

* 

bling and lumbering along. 

The two flat cars that it pushed were filled with 
steel rails and ties with which to fix the track. 

Nat sat very still as he watched the Goose come 
clanking and rumbling across the lower bridge, push¬ 
ing the flat cars past him and above the switch, where 
it stopped. 

The section gang, eleven men and the foreman, 
soon followed on their speeder, which pulled a small 
trailer loaded with picks, shovels, claw-bars, and 
sledge-hammers. The speeder stopped directly in 
front of Nat, who watched the men as they slid from 
their seats, picked up their tools, and laid them be¬ 
side the track. At a signal from the section boss 
they formed a circle around the speeder, and taking 
firm hold, waited for another signal. 

“Now, all together, boys!” The boss motioned 
with his hand and in a low, emphatic voice called, 
“Hip!” 

They lifted the car and set it down on a small flat 
beside the track. After the trailer also had been 


THE GALLOPING GOOSE 127 

lifted from the rails and set in the clear, the boss, 
with his gang, walked over to the bridge. 

“This track’s spread! Bring four claw-bars.” 
He pointed at four bent rails. “These have to be 
taken up. Pull up the spikes!” He went on 
toward the Galloping Goose. “Hey,” he called to 
the engineer of the huge crane, “swing that boom 
around here with about thirty ties, will you?” 

Nat watched the engineer and his helpers—or 
“swampers,” as they were known around camp—as 
the ties were lifted high into the air. He was greatly 
interested in their work, and as he pulled his watch 
from his pocket and glanced at it he frowned regret¬ 
fully. “Ten to eleven!” He looked around for 
Micky but could not see him anywhere. He 
whistled shrilly, and the coon jumped down from 
a sunny stump where he had been asleep. Tossing 
him to his shoulder, Nat said aloud, “Jiminy, I’ll 
have to hurry!” He started across the lower bridge, 
running and jumping from tie to tie. 

After dinner he saw the section men take their 
places on the speeder, which was started as soon as 
the last one had taken his seat. 

“Wish I could go with them and watch the Goose 
pick up logs,” Nat thought, as he looked longingly 
at them. “Hope Cluff hasn’t anything extra for 
me \o do this afternoon; then I’d have time to walk 
up and watch them for a while.” 


128 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

But, as usual, Cluff did have extra work for Nat. 
After he had carried boxes of canned fruit and vege¬ 
tables from the back porch, where the trainmen had 
left them, into the storeroom, Mrs. Higgins sent him 
on an errand to the company store, which was at the 
other end of the camp. He walked so fast on the 
way back that he was breathless as he went into the 
kitchen, where Cluff was working. 

“Anything else for me to do now, Mr. Cluff?” he 
asked anxiously. 

“Hm-m. Let’s see.” Cluff appeared to con¬ 
sider deeply. 

Nat shifted uneasily. He hoped Cluff would not 
keep him waiting long. “I’d like to go up and watch 
the Goose a while, if you’ve nothing for me to do,” he 
ventured. 

“Go ahead,” the cook said sharply, “but you’ll 
have to make up the time to-night.” 

Nat hurried out, jumped off the back porch, and 
whistled the Song of the Whistlepunk as he started 
up the track, without even stopping to look for 
Micky, wondering in what way he would have to 
make up the time. 

At the Twin Bridges he found that the track had 
been fixed and the section men had gone. Engine 
Number 30 had taken away the cars of rails and ties 
and had switched three empty flat-cars in their place. 
The Galloping Goose had turned around again with 


THE GALLOPING GOOSE 129 

its boom swinging out toward the upper bridge, as 
the swamper turned the switch, and it “chugged” 
down the track to the huge pile of debris, pulling 
the empty cars along behind. 

Nat went up on the bank, where he could have a 
clear view of the logs and demolished cars as they 
were lifted by the boom and loaded upon the flat¬ 
cars. 

Taking the large hook which was fastened to the 
end of the wire rope that dangled from the boom, the 
helper walked around the old 33 and down a few 
feet to one of the flat-cars which had been crushed 
and was lying upon a crisscrossed pile of logs and 
wreckage. It took him several minutes to pull the 
end of the wire rope under and around the broken 
car and fasten the hook to the rope as close to the 
car as possible, so that when it should be lifted it 
would be held tightly by its own weight. After 
making sure that the hook was secure he jumped 
from log to log until he had reached a place far 
enough below the wreckage to be in the clear if pieces 
of the car should fall, or the rope should break. 

Nat’s eyes widened as he watched. He saw the 
swamper climb upon a boulder that jutted out over 
the river, and heard him shout, “Hey, Nat!” 

Stepping forward, Nat answered loudly, “What 
do you want?” 

“Get up on that stump back of you and pass the 


130 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

signals to the engineer; I can’t see him from here.” 

Nat climbed to the top of the redwood stump and 
called out, “Ready?” 

The swamper passed him a signal which he knew 
meant to “go ahead easy.” Turning to the engineer 
he held both of his fists, with forefingers up, out in 
front and shook them slowly. 

The engineer moved a lever, the slack in the rope 
was taken up, and the Goose roared and puffed as it 
started to lift the heavy car. Though Nat signaled 
the engineer, his eyes were glued to the swamper, for 
he did not want to give the wrong signal. The car 
cracked and began to slip. Nat’s arms shot straight 
out as the swamper gave the signal to stop. The 
car was let down upon the pile of logs and the 
swamper ran to fix the choker around it in a stronger 
place. 

Nat grinned to himself and wished that Scotty 
could see him working with the Goose. And the 
Harrison girls, too! He had not forgotten how 
Patsy had laughed at him right before Darrow when 
he accidentally kicked over the bucket of potatoes. 
He wished she would come along now. He guessed 
she wouldn’t laugh now! 

After the choker had been fixed the swamper again 
gave the “go ahead easy” signal to Nat, who passed 
it on to the engineer. This time the car was lifted 
high above the other wreckage, swung around, and 


THE GALLOPING GOOSE 131 

dropped upon a flat-car, where the other swamper 
unhooked the line. The Goose turned back again, 
the boom was lowered, and another wrecked car was 
loaded. 

And then came the logs. 

Nat’s eyes were shining as he watched the logs, 
each in its own turn being choked with the end of 
the cable, made fast with the hook, lifted high into 
the air, swung around, and laid aside in a neat 
pile to be loaded later and sent on its interrupted 
journey to the mill. 

He hoped he could get through with his work 
early so that he might return and watch longer. But 
he was soon disappointed, for Cluff told him that he 
must help clear the tables so that the benches could 
be piled upon them, for it was scrubbing night. 
“Scrubbing night!” He had forgotten all about 
that. 

Nat was very quiet as he helped Emma clear the 
tables. He helped scrub the floor but hurried 
through the task as fast as possible. Then he ran 
to his cabin, switched on the light, hung up his 
sweater, and glanced around for Micky. But the 
little coon was not there. “Wonder where he is,” 
he thought. “Wish he’d stay in the cabin nights.” 


CHAPTER IX 


A SURPRISE 

“Come on, Micky. Want to take a walk?” Nat 
had hurried through his work the day after the wreck 
and had two hours off before supper time. “We’ll 
go up and see what the Goose is doing this afternoon. 
Maybe she’s got the 33 on the track. Hey! Wait 
a minute,” he called, for Micky had bounded past 
him and was running up the track as fast as his little 
legs could carry him. 

Nat followed, half walking and half running. “I 
wonder what he wants?” he thought to himself. 
Suddenly he saw Micky dash to a little shallow pool 
beside the track. “Micky!” he exclaimed. “What’s 
the matter with you? What’re you after, there?” 

Micky did not stop to answer but bounded around 
and around, only occasionally stopping to dip his 
paw into the water. 

Nat investigated, then laughed loudly as he dis¬ 
covered the cause of the little coon’s excitement. 

“Why, Micky,” he said, “there’s not a frog in that 
pool. They’re only tadpoles and haven’t even lost 

132 


A SURPRISE 133 

their tails yet. It’d take you all day to catch enough 
of those to make a meal. C’monwithme. I’ll show 
you where you can find some nice frogs over in the 
willows.” 

Nat walked on to a small marshy flat, surrounded 
by pussy willows, their reddish-brown limbs covered 
with velvety silver catkins. In its center was a pond 
of clear water, almost hidden by tall cat-tails and 
tufts of marsh grass. He heard a loud “cr-rock- 
ett,” and was quick enough to see a slim green frog 
drop into the water and glide quietly down, to dis¬ 
appear in the green frog spit at the bottom of the 
pond. 

“Here, Micky!” he called excitedly. “Hurry!” 
He picked up Micky and tossed him to a tuft of grass 
near the end of the log. Dozens of big and little 
frogs leaped from tuft to tuft and down into the 
water, with Micky jumping after them. He be¬ 
came so excited on seeing so many of the little hop¬ 
ping creatures that he ran around and around in be¬ 
wilderment until all the frogs had found places of 
safety. 

Nat laughed as he looked at Micky sitting in the 
center of a tuft of grass, gazing about in astonish¬ 
ment, and wondering how they had vanished so 
quickly. 

“You’re a fine coon. Didn’t even catch one! 
Here’s one for you!” Nat reached under the log 


134 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

upon which he was standing, pulled out a frog, and 
held it up by its hind leg. Just as he tossed it to 
Micky he heard laughing voices in the Harrisons’ 
yard at the upper end of the marsh. He listened in¬ 
tently. “Guess I’ll walk past there on my way to 
the wreck. C’mon, Micky.” Whistling softly to 
himself he started across the marsh. 

He stopped for a moment outside the picket fence, 
for he found that the voices were coming from 
Patsy’s playhouse, an old redwood stump, twenty 
feet in diameter, which had been hollowed and black¬ 
ened by fire. It had ridges and shelves and realistic 
seats and benches, and, in places, holes which served 
as windows. A potted geranium adorned one win¬ 
dow, and a crude window-box, overflowing with yel¬ 
low violets, was nailed to the stump beneath another. 
Carpets of green oxalis grew between the stump 
house and the fence. 

Patsy was just reaching through the window to 
pick a violet as Nat was passing. 

“O-oh!” she exclaimed. “Here’s Nat!” 

Nat heard Peggy ask, “Where?” And then 
Peggy, Patsy, June, and their little three-year-old 
sister ran out to the fence, followed by four or five 
other children. 

“We’re going to play show. Want to play with 
us?” Peggy asked, smiling at him. 

Nat shook his head. “No,” he laughed. 


A SURPRISE 135 

“Oh, come on, Nat,” urged Patsy. “You won’t 
have to act. Honest you won’t. You can be in the 
audience. Honest and truly, cross my heart, hope 
to die if I should tell a lie!” With a quick motion 
of her forefinger she marked an imaginary cross over 
her heart. 

“Where’s Micky? Didn’t you bring him?” 
Little Sister peeked through the pickets of the fence 
and looked around, as Nat whistled shrilly and 
Micky came bounding from a thicket of salmon 
berry bushes near by. 

“We’ll have Micky in the show; may we, Nat?” 
Peggy patted Micky as his master lifted him to a 
fence post. “Isn’t his gray fur soft and fluffy? 
And the little black stripes across his face make him 
look so cute. He’d be a fine actor. Please, Nat.” 

“And, oh, gracious,” said June, “I’ll go and get 
my cat. He likes to play show. He’ll say ‘Meow, 
m-e-o-w’ every time I tell him to. Not the gray one, 
but the black one with white trimmings.” 

The little sister laughed and a dimple appeared 
above each corner of her red mouth and her blue eyes 
sparkled as she cried, “I’ll go catch Ichabod Crane, 
my little red rooster, for the circus.” Running and 
skipping, she followed June around the corner of 
the stump house. 

But not even all that could tempt Nat to stay. 
“I’m going on up to the wreck,” he said. “Maybe 


136 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

they’ll need me to pass signals again to-day! 
S’long.” With a glance at Peggy and Patsy he 
turned and started across to the railroad track. But 
presently he stopped, for he saw Darrow going out 
of the front gate. He frowned, and his eyes nar¬ 
rowed as he thought, “I wonder what he’s doing 
here? And how’d he get here? With Jake? That’s 
it. Jake would be back from the woods to-day with 
the pack train.” 

Just then Harrison called from his office, a small 
room built on to the front of his house. “Nat, come 
here, will you?” 

“Yes, sir.” Nat dropped Micky and started 
toward the office. “Now, I wonder what he wants.” 
For a moment his heart beat wildly. “Maybe about 
the wreck, or Darrow. That’s just about it.” He 
passed Darrow as he went on, but the latter did not 
look at him so Nat did not speak. 

For a moment the boy stood on the porch. The 
office door was open and he could hear the superin¬ 
tendent talking with Jack Irving. 

“Y’know,” Harrison was saying, “this sure sur¬ 
prises me. Thought there’d be lots more cedar out 
there than Darrow specifies here in this report.” 

“Well, he’s hardly got a good start cruising the 
timber yet,” Irving answered. 

“Yes, but this gives us an idea, anyway. Shan¬ 
non will be disappointed.” 


A SURPRISE 137 

“Yes, you bet! But I’d not worry till it’s all 
cruised. Oh, hello Nat!” Irving got up from 
his chair and towered above the boy as he en¬ 
tered. 

“Hello; sit down!” Harrison, in his swivel chair 
at his desk, turned to Nat. “I called the cook-house 
on the telephone and Scotty said you were going up 
to the wreck. We’ve been watching for you. Irv¬ 
ing has been having a lot of trouble with the whistle- 
punk at 2 5 and he’d like to know right away if you’ll 
take the job. Good chance for advancement as you 
grow older. ’Most every one working in the woods 
started out punking whistles.” 

Nat’s heart leaped as he thought, “Will I take it!” 
He answered quickly, “I’ll sure take the job!” He 
grinned as he went on delightedly, “That’ll be great! 
I’d sure like to work in the woods! Thanks, Mr. 
Harrison, and you, too, Irving.” And then he 
thought, “No more white aprons, no more potatoes 
to peel or dishes to wash. Gee! Wait’ll I tell 
Scotty and Emma!” 

Harrison smiled as he watched the boy and sensed 
his pleasure. “You may keep your cabin here and 
board at the cook-house,” he told him. 

“Board at the cook-house? Won’t that be great! 
I’ll be working with the lumberjacks instead of wait¬ 
ing on ’em. And I can wear real men’s clothes. 
Calked boots, canvas pants and rain-coats, plaid 


138 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

mackinaws, and overalls with the legs fringed at the 
bottom!” 

“We’ll make a lumberjack out of you, Nat. 
You’ll start in the morning?” Irving questioned. 

“You bet!” Nat exclaimed, as he started to leave. 

Harrison followed him to the door. “I hope 
you’ll like your new job. Of course you’ll get a 
raise.” 

“Thank you. I’ll like it. That’s sure!” Nat 
whistled for Micky, who came bounding around 
the house. He took him in his arms and hurried 
through the gate. “We’ll not go to the wreck 
now, Micky,” he said aloud. “We’ve got a new 
job. Got to get ready to go to work in the woods 
to-morrow. What do you think of that? Pretty 
good, I’ll say!” 


CHAPTER X 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

After leaving Harrison’s office Nat went directly 
to the cook-house. “Scotty! Emma!” he shouted 
as he ran in, “I’ve got a new job.” 

“What’s that?” Cluff demanded, from the table 
where he was kneading dough. 

“What 1” exclaimed Scotty. “You’ve got what?” 

Nat stood very straight, with eyes shining. “I’ve 
another job, out in the woods!” 

“Out in the woods?” Cluff looked mystified. 

“Helping the Goose pick up the wreck, eh?” 
Scotty asked with a twinkle in his eyes. 

“No, sir,” Nat grinned. “Punking whistles!” 

“Well, I swan!” Scotty gave the boy a sound 
pat on the shoulder. “That’s all right, sure enough, 
but we’ll miss you a lot in the kitchen.” 

“Where’s Emma?” Nat asked suddenly. 

“I think she’s in the cabin with Mrs. Higgins. 
About time she’s getting into the kitchen, too!” 

“Call her, Scotty!” ordered Cluff, who then sur¬ 
prised Nat by saying, “Did you know that Hector 
is here?” 


139 


140 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Hector? No! Where is he?” 

“I think he’s in your cabin.” 

“Boy!” Nat exclaimed. “Wait’ll I tell him!” 
And he hurried out. 

“Well, well!” Hector exclaimed as they shook 
hands. “How are you, Nat?” 

“Fine! How’re you? Been waiting long? I 
didn’t know you were here.” The boy gazed af¬ 
fectionately at Hector, old and dignified, his clear 
blue eyes always friendly, his mouth, under his 
shaggy white mustache, rather firm but always ready 
with a smile. 

“No, not long. I followed Hank in. That man 
Darrow came in, too. He’s going back with me 
to-morrow.” 

“I saw him.” Nat was eager to tell Hector about 
his new work, and the light leaped into his eyes as 
he said, “I have a new job, Hector.” 

“Is that so?” Hector said in surprise. “You’re 
not working in the kitchen any more?” 

Nat shook his head vigorously. “No, not after 
to-night. This is my last day there. I’m going 
to work at Camp 25, punking whistles! Won’t it 
be great, Hector?” 

“I should say sol” agreed the old man. “I’m 
glad to hear it.” 

After supper Nat went down to the company 
store. The storekeeper was busy, and Nat joined 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 141 

the loggers in the back end of the room. As he did 
so he saw Darrow come in and stop at the tobacco 
stand. 

Nat glanced over his shoulder at him, then busied 
himself looking at some overalls and rain-coats, un¬ 
til the storekeeper could wait on him. Presently 
he heard the latter say, “Well, Nat, what can I do 
for you?” 

“Boots!” Nat said emphatically, “with calks—” 

He was interrupted by loud tappings upon the 
cigar case. “I’d like to get waited on!” Darrow 
said darkly. 

The storekeeper looked up in astonishment. 
“Why, er—Nat, here, came in first.” 

Darrow grumbled, “Well, what of it? I’m in a 
hurry!” 

“Maybe the kid’s in a hurry, too!” replied the 
other. 

“You got only one clerk in this store?” Darrow 
scowled and went out, muttering something about 
lumber camps’ stores and clerks in general. 

“Who’s that bird?” the storekeeper asked. 

“Oh, he’s one of the men cruising the cedar timber 
for the Shannon Lumber Company,” Nat replied, 
indifferently. 

“Hard-boiled, eh?” He took down a box of 
shoes. “Is this what you want?” 

Nat pinched the heavy black leather and ran his 


142 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

fingers over the sharp calks in the thick soles. 
“Sure!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I want.” 

“Try ’em on?” 

“No, I’ll wait till I get to the cabin. If they don’t 
fit I’ll exchange them. Let’s see some socks.” 

He bought some heavy white woolen socks with 
wide red stripes around the top, overalls and sus¬ 
penders, a red and black plaid mackinaw, and a 
brown canvas rainproof hat with a narrow brim 
that turned up all around. Then he hurried to his 
cabin. “Look, Hector,” he said, as he unrolled 
the bundles on his cot. “No more white aprons for 
me. See my overalls? No bib.” He held them 
up to his waist. “I’ve got suspenders. Good 
ones, too. See?” Picking up the striped suspend¬ 
ers he stretched them and let them snap. 

Hector took up one of the shoes. “What’s this? 
Calked soles?” he asked. 

“Sure!” Nat chuckled as he unlaced his shoes and 
kicked them off. “To keep from slipping off the 
logs.” 

“That’s right,” Hector agreed. “All lumber¬ 
jacks wear calked boots.” Then he examined the 
mackinaw. “That’s a fine one. Good and heavy. 
It’ll be warm.” 

Nat put on his new boots, laced them, and stood 
up very straight. He could feel the sharp calks 
sinking into the wooden floor. Stepping forward, 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 143 

he glanced over his shoulder to see the holes left 
there as he walked. “All right, aren’t they, Hec¬ 
tor? Just a fit!” 

“Better waterproof them. They’ll last longer,” 
Hector suggested. 

The next morning Nat dressed with care. As 
he stood before his small mirror he smiled proudly. 
He put on his new canvas hat and turned the brim 
up all around. 

Just then the gong rang for breakfast. 

“There’s the gong, Hector, come on!” Nat 
quickly put on his plaid mackinaw. Then he and 
Hector walked over to the cook-house, entered the 
dining-room, and sat down beside Axel, a big Nor¬ 
wegian who worked on the rigging crew at Camp 
25, and who occupied a cabin with Scotty. 

Mrs. Higgins, looking shorter and plumper than 
ever in a pink and white gingham dress and a short 
white apron, set a platter of bacon and eggs upon 
the table. “I see you’re ready for the woods, Nat. 
Fine outfit you have on. Come in the kitchen and 
show Higgins before you go,” she said, smiling at 
him. 

“Yes, m’am. Are you going to work in my place 
here?” 

“Yes, I think I’ll work all the time now. I like 
it.” 

Nat was eager to get to the woods. He ate 


144 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

quickly, but took time to look around at the lumber¬ 
jacks. He was one of them. He was eating with 
them, instead of waiting on them. They were go¬ 
ing to the woods, and when the whistle blew this 
morning he would be with them. 

After Higgins, Scotty, and Emma had admired 
his outfit, he said good-bye to Hector and went across 
the foot-bridge. On the other side of the river he 
met Jack Irving, starting up the trail through the 
redwoods. 

“Hello! Ready for work?” called Jack. 

“You bet!” Nat was inexpressibly happy as he 
followed the camp boss along the narrow trail 
through the forest of stately redwood trees that had 
been standing there for ages. Hector had told 
him the history of the trees, and as he walked along 
he seemed to appreciate more fully the awe-inspiring 
story. 

Hector had not called them redwoods, but “Se¬ 
quoia Sempervirens” which, he said, meant “always 
green. ’’ And he said that the only place in the world 
where they grow is on the coast of California. 
“They are living remnants of former types of vege¬ 
tation now almost extinct,” had been Hector’s words. 
Nat had said them over to himself afterwards, for he 
liked their sound, and the thought of anything thou¬ 
sands of years old thrilled him. 

He wondered about the strange animals that had 


145 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

walked beneath these trees, the queer birds that had 
nested in their branches, the strange reptiles that 
had crawled through the dense underbrush, and the 
people! Hector had told him about the Indians. 
But before the Indians—? 

For five years Nat had lived in the redwoods and 
admired them, but he had never realized their maj¬ 
esty until Hector had told him of their age. Now 
that he was going to work in the woods he felt like 
one of the pioneers Old Timer told about. 

Irving turned to his right and Nat saw before him, 
lying about in confusion, acres of trees, cut and 
sawed, and ready to be hauled to the mill. Bark, 
chips, and sawdust were lying about in heaps. 

He had come out of the virgin forest to the area 
where he was to work. He stopped suddenly. 

Irving looked surprised. “Come on,” he said. 
“What’s the matter?” 

Nat gazed at the fallen trees. “Gee whillikens! 
I never realized before what an awful job it is to 
get the logs out to the mill. And I have to pull 
the whistle wire and make the whistle on the donkey 
engine go ‘Toot!’ to start every one of those logs on 
its journey!” 

Irving laughed. “You’re not sorry you took the 
job, are you?” 

“No, siree!” exclaimed Nat. “C’mon, let’s go!” 
A thrill went through him at the thought of really 


146 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

doing a man’s work. As they went along the crest 
of a ridge Nat looked out over a deep, timbered basin 
to the ocean, seven or eight miles away. He could 
see Humboldt Bay, where the town of Mallard was 
situated. 

“What’s that? Smoke from the mill?” he asked, 
looking at a streamer of smoke that seemed to hang 
over the town. 

“Sure. Have you ever been to the mill?” Irv¬ 
ing asked. 

“Yes, Mr. Higgins took me down there once. 
While I was there the old 33 pulled up to the mill 
pond with a string of loads, and I saw the crew poke 
the logs off. Say! There must have been hun¬ 
dreds and hundreds of logs in that pond.” 

Irving nodded. “They’ve got to have lots of 
logs there to keep the mill going. If the mill closed 
down for one day it’d cost the Shannon Company 
lots of money. And that’s where we come in, Nat; 
we’ve got to get the logs to keep the mill going.” 

Nat remembered the big mill, built at the very 
edge of the water. To his mind it resembled a mon¬ 
ster with wide-open mouth and long tongue of steel 
reaching for the logs as they were floated up by 
men with pike poles. 

“There’s a steamer just leaving the docks now!” 
Nat exclaimed. “At least it looks like one. See 
the smoke?” 


147 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Sure, that’s a lumber boat. It’s just been loaded 
and is starting on its long journey, maybe halfway 
around the world!” 

“Where’s it bound for?” 

“Australia, probably.” 

“What do they do with it over there?” 

“The lumber?” Irving was thoughtful. “Why, 
they build homes with it, and they use it in the 
mines.” For a moment he hesitated, then added, 
“Deep down in the dangerous shafts the safety of 
the miners depends upon strong timbering.” 

“Where else is it shipped?” Nat queried. 

“Some of it to New Zealand, some to Singapore; 
for that matter, it goes all over the world. It’s 
shipped to the west coast of South America to be 
used for railroad ties. Some is sent to Mexico for 
the same purpose. They ship it through the Pan¬ 
ama Canal to the eastern coast of the United States 
and by rail to the interior.” 

Nat was thoughtful as he watched the steamer, 
which looked very small in the distance, turn its bow 
toward the ocean and start on its long journey. 

Suddenly Nat realized that he, a whistlepunk, 
would be an important factor in the lumber indus¬ 
try. He would pull on the whistle line and start all 
the logs on their way from the woods to foreign coun¬ 
tries! He looked at the hundreds of them, cut, 
peeled, and ready to be pulled by the donkey en- 


148 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

gines into the landings. “Australia! Singapore!’’ 
he said to himself. What magic words of adventure 
and life. And Irving had said them in so simple a 
way. 

The boy suddenly felt older, as though a great 
responsibility were resting on him, and he vowed 
that he’d do his work well. 

“Well, here’s your whistle line, Nat,” said Irv¬ 
ing. “You see, the wire is stretched from the don¬ 
key engine to that snag, where it passes through 
a ring, then over to that stump,” he motioned to his 
right, “where it passes through another ring and 
is anchored out here. Your place is always near 
the rigging crew, where you can hear them call their 
signals. When the logs have been pulled in to the 
landing you’ll have to move back as the rigging 
crew moves. The whistle line is unreeled from the 
donkey engine, and when you move all you have 
to do is loosen the end of your line here and take it 
farther out to another stump.” 

“Looks like a series of clothes-lines that zigzag 
from the donkey out here.” Nat grinned as he sat 
down beside Irving on a stump and ran his hand 
lightly over the whistle wire. 

“Do you know anything at all about logging? 
You ought to. You have been around here long 
enough,” Irving said, as he rolled and lighted a 
cigarette. 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 149 

“Yes,” Nat said slowly, “but knowing a thing 
in my head and doing it with my hands might be 
different.” Both he and Irving laughed. “Of 
course,” he continued, “I know the whistles. 
Scotty taught me the Song of the Whistlepunk.” 

“Yes? What is it?” 

In a clear low voice Nat san^: 

“One to go ahead, 

Two to come back; 

Three for an easy pull, 

Four for the slack. 

“Go ahead easy, 

Come back slow; 

She’s a haywire outfit, 

And a darn poor show.” 

“That’s it!” Irving laughed. “I learned that 
when I was a kid, punking whistles!” He looked 
at his watch. “Six thirty. We’re early, and it’s 
not time to go to work yet, so I’ll explain the lay¬ 
out. You see that pole over there?” 

Nat nodded as he looked at a pole near the don¬ 
key engine, rising one hundred and seventy feet 
in the air. “You bet! That’s the high pole. I 
know you always pick out the soundest tree in a 
suitable place in the area to be logged. High poles 
always look sort of lonesome standing up so, with¬ 
out any top, bare and alone, after all the other trees 
have been felled and trimmed.” 


150 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“That’s right,” Irving agreed. “But they’re not 
lonesome after the high climber gets busy and puts 
up the blocks and lines.” 

“I know how that’s done,” Nat said. “I watched 
him up at 24 one morning when I had my traps set 
there. He puts on his spurs, his wide leather belt, 
and the steel corded rope that goes around the tree 
and is fastened to his belt. As he climbs he pulls 
the rope up, clearing knots and obstructions.” He 
gazed thoughtfully at the high pole. “Yes, sir, I 
saw him do it. You’d think he’d get dizzy, wouldn’t 
you?” 

“Get’s used to it,” Irving answered. 

Nat went on. “And he takes a small block up 
with him, hangs it at the top of the pole, and passes 
a light rope through the block, to the ground, and 
back again. A small line is pulled through to be 
used later to pull the climber to the top of the pole, 
so he won’t have to bother climbing with his spurs, 
when changing and greasing the blocks. The high 
lead block, the one nearest the top of the pole, weighs 
sixteen hundred pounds. It’s a sure enough Paul 
Bunyan pulley, isn’t it?” 

“You said it!” Irving laughed. “It has got to 
be big and strong to stand the strain. The main 
line, a big steel cable, one and three-eighths inches 
thick and seventeen hundred and fifty feet long, 
unreels from the donkey engine, through the block, 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 151 

and out to the timber to be hauled in. That cable 
would hold one hundred thousand pounds with all 
the line out.” 

“Whew!” Nat whistled. “That cable would 
pretty near hold Babe, Paul Bunyan’s blue ox.” 

“You see that small block underneath the high 
lead block,” Irving went on. “That’s the trip line 
block. The trip line is small and runs reverse to 
the main line. It runs out in the woods around the 
layout—we set corner blocks for it to run through 
—and is attached to the main line. Going back 
light, the trip line pulls the main line and the rig¬ 
ging. Going in with a log, the trip line follows. 
You see how it is. 

“And now for the whistles. The head rigger is 
responsible for the proper choking of the logs, and 
sees that they run free of stumps and snags upon 
which they might hang up, until they are in the ter¬ 
ritory of the chaser, the lumberjack who unhooks 
the chokers around the logs after they have been 
dragged to the landing. The head rigger is the 
one, as a rule, who gives the signals. When he 
yells, ‘Hey!’ he means to start, and you jerk the 
line once. But if he yells, ‘Hey!’ when they are 
pulling, he means to stop, and you pull the line 
once. When he yells, ‘Hey! hey!’ he means for the 
donkey engineer to pull on the trip line, and you 
pull the line twice.” 



152 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Nat nodded slowly. “I think I understand it 
pretty well.” 

“All right, Punk! It’s about time to go to work 
now, and I’ll have to leave you. I’ll send a man off 
the rigging crew to help you for a while, until you get 
used to the whistles. And say, don’t be afraid of 
that head rigger. I had some words with him yes¬ 
terday when I sent the kid who was punking whistles 
here to camp 24. More than likely he’ll try to bluff 
you. He’s hard-boiled.” And as Irving started 
away he added, “And remember, Nat, everything 
wrong that happens is blamed to the whistlepunk 
as a matter of course.” 

The head rigger—burly, red-haired, and square- 
jawed Snappy Dillon! Nat had forgotten that the 
ill-tempered Dillon was head rigger at camp 25. 
And he was going to work for him! “But I’ll not 
let that spoil my day,” the boy thought. He watched 
eagerly as the men prepared for the day’s work, 
but frowned a little as he saw Dillon coming* 
toward him. 

“So yer goin’ to be whistlepunk, huh?” 

Nat assured him that he was. 

“Wal, y’ might as well understand right here an’ 
now that when y’ work in th’ woods y’ got to work, 
an’ no foolin’. An’ when y’ hear a signal yelled 
y’ got to make it snappy! Y’ understand?” 

Nat nodded. 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 153 

Dillon walked over to examine a tail block; the 
rigger whom Irving had sent to help Nat sat down 
beside the boy. 

“Do you know the whistles ? You’ve been around 
the woods a lot and I don’t think you’ll need much 
coaching.” 

“I have watched from a distance lots of times but 
I never did know exactly how it all works. Irving 
explained some of it to me.” 

“You’ll learn,” said the rigger. “Just watch 
every time you have a chance. Come on, we’re 
ready to start.” 

“Pley!” a voice rang out. 

Nat almost stopped breathing as he grabbed the 
wire more tightly and looked at the rigger to make 
sure he was doing the right thing. 

“Jerk it, Punk,” said his companion. 

Nat gave a pull, but there was no response from 
the whistle. 

“Pull it hard,” ordered the rigger. 

Nat pulled hard. “Toot!” The whistle on the 
donkey engine sounded clear and loud. 

“Now you’re loggin’!” The rigger laughed. 

Nat had an increase in height. He had started 
his first log on its journey. Down the mountain 
side it swept, taking brushwood, bark, and chips 
with it, and leaving a clean trail behind, until it 
crashed into a tall spindly sucker that trembled for 


154 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

an instant and then went down with a splitting 
noise. 

“Hey! hey!” yelled the rigger. 

Nat jerked the wire twice. “Toot, toot,” shrieked 
the whistle. 

Nat had a second increase in height. He sat 
straight as a ramrod. He liked to hear the clear 
sound of the whistle. He liked to hear the shouts 
of the men, the crash of the logs, and the rumbling 
of the exhaust of the engine. He was working. 
He was part of the working world and he liked it. 

That evening, just before the whistle blew, he 
saw engine 34 pull the loaded cars out and shove 
the “empties” in, to be loaded the next day. 

After the empty cars had been switched into the 
landing, the “34” whistled, and Nat saw the train 
of logs go around the mountain and out of sight. 
The logs that he had helped to move were started 
on their journey to the mill. 


CHAPTER XI 


A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 

Nat was very happy during the days that fol¬ 
lowed. There was no more washing of dishes or 
peeling of potatoes unless he wanted to. Some¬ 
times he helped Scotty after supper; sometimes he 
helped Emma set her tables for breakfast; but it 
was because he liked Scotty and Emma and not 
because he had to do it. He was free after the five 
o’clock whistle blew. He had taken up his traps 
because he didn’t have time to attend to them. 
Every morning he walked up the trail through the 
redwoods to where they were logging. He and 
Irving became fast friends. 

“I see the choppers are about ready to begin 
sawing the big tree,” Nat said, one morning. 

“Yes, just about,” Irving replied. 

For three days, as Nat went to and from his 
work, he had watched the two choppers who were 
going to fell, near the trail, a large redwood, twenty 
feet in diameter. He had listened to the echoes of 
the dynamite blasting, as all the knolls, stumps, and 

155 


156 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

large rocks were blown out to make a smooth place 
for the tree to fall. Suckers and underbrush had 
been used to make a bed so that there would not he 
so much danger of the tree breaking to pieces when 
it struck the ground. 

For a moment Nat stood in the trail, looking up 
at the huge tree, and then climbed up a little way 
so he could have a closer view. Irving followed 
him. 

“They’ve got the undercut all ready,” said Nat, 
walking around to the upper side of the giant tree. 
“It leans uphill a little, doesn’t it?” ITe looked up 
along the bare trunk into the rugged limbs. “If 
it was leaning downhill they’d have chopped the 
undercut on the lower side and they’d have had to cut 
it deeper, wouldn’t they?” 

“Sure. The depth of the undercut depends upon 
the diameter of the tree and the direction in which 
it leans.” 

“Too bad Paul Bunyan isn’t here,” Nat smiled. 
“If he was, they wouldn’t have to go to so much 
trouble. He’d cut that tree down with one swing 
of his axe.” He was thoughtful for a moment. 
“They ought to begin sawing the first thing this 
morning.” 

Irving looked about them. “The staging’s all 
ready. I’d like to see that tree fall. It’s so big, 
and redwood is so brittle, I’m afraid it’ll crack in 


A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 157 

hundreds of places. And when they’d try to run it 
through the saws at the mill, it would crumble.” 

Nat wished that he, too, could see that tree fall, 
but he supposed he’d be working and the trees 
around it would hide all but the top from his view. 
He looked up at the staging, a temporary structure 
of boards, upon which the choppers were to stand 
while sawing. Notches had been cut around the 
trunk several feet from the ground and drivers had 
been placed in them, to support the staging. 

“C’mon, Nat.” Irving glanced at his watch. 
“It’s almost time for the whistle.” 

“And here come the choppers.” Nat saw two 
stalwart loggers swinging up the trail, ready to be¬ 
gin the day’s work. 

As Nat and Irving went on, the boy wondered 
how many feet of lumber were in that tree. He 
guessed at its height and diameter. Taking a 
scratch pad and pencil from his pocket, he tried to 
figure how many houses could be built from it. He 
became so absorbed in his calculations that he was 
oblivious to his surroundings. 

“Hey!” shouted the rigger. 

No answering whistle from the donkey. 

“Hey!” Still there was no answer. 

The rigger came over to the stump where Nat 
was sitting, and snapped, “Lley, Punk! If you 
want to sleep, why don’t you go in and go to bed?” 


158 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Wh-why, what’s the matter?” 

“What’s the matter?” shouted the rigger. 
“Where are your ears? Can’t you hear? Didn’t 
you hear me yell?” 

“No,” Nat said meekly, as he hung his head. 

“Well, get on the job, Punk, get on the job.” 

Nat vowed he would not be caught dreaming 
again, because he knew that the head rigger would 
be glad to have him sent back to the cook-house to 
work, for he wanted the job for the boy who had 
been sent to camp 24. “No, sir, I bet I won’t be 
caught napping again,” he thought, as he hummed 
the old tune: 


“One to go ahead, 

Two to come back; 

Three for an easy pull, 

Four for the slack.” 

The third day after the choppers had begun saw¬ 
ing the big tree, Nat and Irving started home to¬ 
gether after work, and stopped at a spot from which 
they could have a clear view of the tree a few yards 
above them. “I thought sure they’d fell it to-day,” 
Nat said, as he looked up at the choppers standing on 
the staging, one at each end of the huge saw. 

“Working overtime to-night, ain’t you?” Irving 
called to them. 

“Yes. Since this wind’s come up, Harrison 


A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 159 

wants us to go ahead and fell it to-night,” the head 
chopper replied. 

“They could brace it, couldn’t they?” Nat asked 
Irving. 

“It’s too fine a tree to take a chance on.” 

Nat looked thoughtful. “They’ll have to finish 
the job, for if it blows over, the whole tree’ll be 
cracked and ruined. How I’d like to see it go over!” 
He looked expectantly at Irving. 

“You’d be late for supper.” 

“But I could get my own supper if I’m late.” 

“All right,” Irving replied. “We’d better find 
a safe place farther on.” He called to the chop¬ 
pers, “It’ll be about a half-hour before she falls?” 

“Just about,” answered one of them. 

Nat and Irving found a safe place upon an old 
stump where there w r ould be no danger of being hit 
by falling limbs, not only from the tree as it fell, but 
from surrounding ones with which it must come 
in contact as it went over. Then in thoughtful si¬ 
lence they watched the choppers draw the saw back 
and forth through the huge butt. 

Suddenly the tree cracked ominously. The chop¬ 
pers pulled the saw away and looked up along the 
tall, columnar trunk of the three-hundred-foot 
giant. 

Nat watched breathlessly as he saw the tree trem¬ 
ble slightly. Then it was still. 


160 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The choppers swung their sledges, and their sharp 
ring upon the steel wedges changed to a hollow 
sound. Their arms worked faster and faster, and 
the sounds came more and more rapidly. 

The tree trembled once more. The wedges were 
driven still faster. c Tt’s going over” Nat ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Not yet,” Irving answered, his eyes never leav¬ 
ing its top. 

The rugged old tree seemed reluctant to fall, 
and stubbornly stood erect as the choppers swung 
their sledges with feverish haste. 

The hollow sound changed to a deep muffled note 
that echoed through the forest. The choppers threw 
their sledges aside. One tore away the staging 
upon which they had been standing, while the other 
shouted, “Tim-frer, up the hill!” Both then ran 
down to the stump from which Irving and Nat were 
watching. 

Nat saw the top of the giant tree tremble and 
sway. Twigs from the topmost branches snapped 
and flew out into the air. The muffled noise grew 
louder and sharper as the tree descended slowly at 
first, then, with a weird moan, crashed to the ground. 
As it fell, limbs from the near-by trees were torn 
off by its spreading branches. A cloud of dust hung 
over the scene for a few moments and then drifted 
away. All was quiet. The lofty tree that had 


A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 161 

lived hundreds upon hundreds of years lay in its 
bed, felled in six days by two men. 

Nat was silent for a moment. Then he said sol¬ 
emnly, “The old tree’ll rise again.” 

“What d’you say?” Irving asked in amazement. 

“I said,” Nat repeated, “that the tree will rise 
again.” 

“What d’you mean?” Irving questioned again. 

“I mean that it’ll rise again,—not as a tree, but 
as a building of some sort, maybe as houses for people 
to live in.” 

“That’s right. I never thought of it in that way 
before,” Irving said as he started on. 

It was almost dark. Nat looked out across the 
little valley. On the summit of the mountain oppo¬ 
site he could see a tall pine rising high above the 
underbrush and small second growth. It marked 
the place where the trail led over the mountain to the 
Lone Pine Company’s woods. He looked down to 
Camp Redwood. Lights were shining in the win¬ 
dows of some of the cottages. 

He was very hungry when he arrived at the cook¬ 
house and went in to get his supper. The work in 
the kitchen had all been done and no one was there, 
but he could hear Emma in the dining-room. He 
called to her, “Got anything to eat?” 

“Well, for land sakes, where’d you come from? 
We all thought you got lost or something.” 



162 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Irving and I stayed to watch a big tree fall. 
I’m hungry.” 

“Oh! We had steak for supper, but I guess you 
can find some cold roast pork left over from lunch, 
and you know there’s always beans. They’re 
prob’ly hot yet.” 

Nat picked up a bowl and ladle, went to the range, 
and laid his hand on the big aluminum bean ket¬ 
tle. “Boy, I’ll say they’re still hot!” He lifted 
the lid and sniffed. “Um-m-m.” 

Just then Adams Cluff entered. “Say, what do 
y’ think this is? A beanery or something, where y’ 
can get meals at all hours? If y’ can’t get here at 
meal time, y’ don’t eat!” 

Nat turned quickly. “But I pay my board.” 

“That don’t cut any ice. Y’ heard what I said.” 

Nat was hungry, and he hated to go without his 
supper. And he was angry, too. “The section 
men and the train crews come in late lots of times 
and you have to feed them!” he said. 

Emma came into the kitchen and, with a disgusted 
look at Cluff, said, “Aw, let him—” but the cook 
cut her off. 

“This is none of your affair. Your place is in 
the dining-room.” And turning to Nat in a threat¬ 
ening manner, he added, “An’ besides, Scotty’s got 
everything washed up an’ he don’t—” 

“Scotty’ll speak for himself, Cluff.” The words 



A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 163 

rang through the kitchen as the speaker came in from 
the porch. “Th’ dishwashin’ part of this layout 
is none of your affair. I’m th’ dishwasher here an’ 
if I want to wash Nat’s dishes that’s my business. 
If you ’tend to th’ cookin’ you’ll have all you can 
do!” 

Cluff glowered at Scotty and started to speak. 
But he thought better of it and went out without a 
word. 

“Gee, he’s mad!” Nat said, looking after the re¬ 
treating man. 

Scotty nodded. “Eat your supper, kid, and for¬ 
get him. He’s enough to give anybody indiges¬ 
tion. Beans? Here, gimme your bowl.” As he 
ladled the beans into the bowl, he sang in a deep 
voice: 

“Sourdough Sam was awful wise, 

Joe Mufferton was wiser; 

He emptied wagon-loads of beans 
Into a spouting geyser. 

Now this is true, the loggers say, 

But seems all out of reason. 

It boiled up beans enough to last 
Throughout the entire season.” 

The boy laughed loudly. “You needn’t stay to 
wash my dishes, Scotty,” he said, as he sat down 
at the table. “I’ll do it.” 

“Just as soon stay here with you. Got nothin’ 


164 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

else to do. I’ll go in th’ pantry an’ make you a 
roast pork sandwich.” Scotty started to leave, but 
suddenly stopped to rub bis eyes. “Say, come here 
kid, quick!” He stared out into the darkness. 
“Do you see th’ same thing I do, or am I goin’ bugs?” 
he asked, as Nat stepped up beside him. 

“Where?” 

“On the Lone Pine trail, about halfway down. 
There it is again, kid, see it?” 

“It’s the green light! Scotty, I see it, as plain as 
can be! Now it’s gone.” Nat whispered excitedly 
as he clutched the man’s sleeve. “There’s been an¬ 
other robbery!” 

Scotty shook his head. “Not this early in th’ 
night.” 

“Well, there’ll be one then, you just wait and 
see.” 

“Hm-m. That gets me, all right.” Scotty looked 
mystified. “Can’t imagine who it could be. No¬ 
body ever takes that trail any more. It’s lots shorter 
around the point since the Lone Pine outfit moved 
farther back into the woods.” 

“Maybe it’s a signal to some one down here.” 

“Maybe.” 

Just then Emma came in from the dining-room. 
“What’s the matter with you two? What’s all the 
excitement?” she asked hurriedly. 

Nat and Scotty exchanged a secretive look, and 



“Do YOU SEE THE SAME THING I DO V’-Page 16U 




















A REDWOOD TREE FALLS 165 

the boy spoke up. “Oh, nothing, I guess.” But 
the minute Emma was out of hearing Nat said 
swiftly, “I’m going up there in the morning and see 
if I can find any tracks. I’ll find something. You 
just wait and see!” 

“Wouldn’t be a bad idea. If there’s another rob¬ 
bery it’ll be in the paper to-morrow.” 

“Not till the day after to-morrow, Scotty.” 

“Yes, that’s right. They wouldn’t get the news 
soon enough for to-morrow’s paper.” 

The two stood for a few minutes looking in the 
direction of the Lone Pine trail, but they did not see 
the light again. Scotty started to make the sand¬ 
wich, and Nat went back to the table. “There’ll 
be a robbery to-night,” he said with finality. 


CHAPTER XII 


A CLUE 

As Nat awoke the next morning, his first thought 
was of the light on the Lone Pine trail, and he re¬ 
membered that he was to look for signs of anyone 
who might have been there. He jumped into his 
clothes and slipped quietly out. He did not go 
along the board walk for fear of attracting atten¬ 
tion, but went through the alders instead. Leav¬ 
ing the thicket, he started up the mountain through 
small second growth and around redwood stumps 
crowned with green sprouts. 

“Now this is just about where the Lone Pine 
trail begins,” he said to himself, as he forced his way 
through a tangled mass of vines and brush to a small 
open space. Time and storms had almost oblit¬ 
erated the old trail. Brush and thickets of myrtle 
had grown across it, yet it could be followed without 
difficulty. The red earth was hard and clean, and 
Nat carefully searched for marks that calked boots 
might have left upon it. “Hm! Nothing here. 
I’d swear to that,” he mused, as he stood for a mo- 


166 


A CLUE 


167 


ment looking up the trail to find a spot where he 
thought a light could be seen from the back porch 
of the cook-house and from the pantry window. 

“Right about where that low bluff is. A fellow 
would sure need a light to keep from falling.” He 
started to the bluff, some two hundred yards above 
him, but he had gone only a little way when he sud¬ 
denly dropped to his knees to examine a mark at the 
foot of a small rock. 

“Boy!” he exclaimed aloud, “if that isn’t the print 
of a man’s right shoe, and going toward Camp Red¬ 
wood ! Lookit! He stepped on that rock and then 
down here, and that’s how he left the print. He 
stepped awful light, ’cause his heel print isn’t here,” 
he thought quickly, “just the sole. And say! 
Look at that!” He bent over closer. “He had a 
worn place right in the middle of his sole. What 
do you know about that! And no calks in his shoes, 
either, ’cause the print hasn’t any little holes in it.” 
Nat squinted his blue eyes and gazed at the impres¬ 
sion, then burst out, “I’ll find who it was bv this 
print; just like the men in Old Timer’s story, who 
tracked the Indians by the white man among them 
who had a crack in the sole of his shoe! But this 
man,” he again looked at the track, “didn’t have a 
cracked sole. He had a worn sole. I’ll find out 
who he is!” 

At that moment Nat heard the gong ringing at 


168 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

the cook-house. He leaped to his feet and started 
to run down the mountain, for he knew that there 
would be only twenty minutes before the second 
bell, which meant breakfast. And he had not for¬ 
gotten that he had almost missed his supper the night 
before. He did not want to go to work without 
breakfast. 

The next evening Nat helped Scotty with his work 
after supper. He had told Scotty about the clue 
he had found, and the latter was interested and 
agreed that there might be a connection- between 
that and the robbery. He had listened to the men 
talking around the cook-house, thinking that he 
might catch a word about another robbery; and 
when the newspaper came, early in the morning, 
he was surprised that there was no mention of any 
robbery. 

Of the two, Nat had been the more surprised. 
He had listened to the men in the woods, and that 
morning, when he went to work, and again in the 
evening, he had carefully looked over every yard of 
the trail for a footprint that might have been made 
by the same man. 

“Every day,” Nat told Scotty, “I’ll look for a 
track just like the one I saw. I remember it ex¬ 
actly. The worn place was two inches long and a 
half-inch wide. But I forgot,” he added slowly, 
“I’m not liable to find the track out there, for no 


A CLUE 169 

calks were in the shoe which made that print. And 
all the loggers wear calks!” 

“That’s right,” Scotty agreed. 

“The man’s here, Scotty. He’s right here in this 
camp now! All the loggers change their shoes 
after work. That makes it easier for me to find him. 
I’ll watch every footprint in this camp and I’ll get 
a look at every man’s shoes. You just wait and 
see; and then if there’s another robbery we’ll know 
just about who to suspect.” 

“I believe you’re right,” Scotty nodded. 

They had just finished their work. Suddenly 
there was a great commotion in the dining-room. 
Emma screamed and ran into the kitchen, with 
Micky bounding after her, scratching at her white 
apron with ink-covered paws. Then he ran hack 
into the dining-room, leaving a trail of black tracks 
on the floor. 

“Micky!” Nat called in astonishment, hurrying 
into the dining-room just as the dispatcher entered 
the room. “How in the world did you get that 
ink all over you?” He picked up Micky and held 
him at arm’s length, for the little coon was covered 
with ink from his head to his bushy ringed tail. 
What mischief had he been doing? 

“Go look at my office and you won’t wonder 
where he got it!” the dispatcher exclaimed angrily. 
“I worked all day on the payroll and he’s spilled 


170 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

ink all over it. Now it’s got to be done over again 
to-night!” 

“And look at my clean apron,” cried Emma. 
“Ink spots all over it! Micky, you’re the biggest 
nuisance I ever saw!” 

Scotty slipped off his white apron and hung it in 
the pantry as he said dryly, “Emma, do you know 
that in Paul’s dining-room it was so far from one 
end of the tables to the other that the waiters wore 
roller skates. If you’d had skates on, you could 
have got away from Micky.” 

The dispatcher flared. “By George! Some¬ 
thing’s got to be done with that coon. He’s a pest.” 
He turned and stalked out, letting the screen door 
bang. 

Nat knit his brows. “Here, Micky,” he said, in 
a troubled voice, “what’d you do that for?” Then 
he turned to Scotty. “You don’t suppose he’ll tell 
Harrison, do you? I might lose my job over it. 
Payrolls are awful important.” 

Scotty nodded gravely. “Give Micky to me 
and go over and see what damage he’s done. It 
might not be so bad. Maybe you can help him.” 

Nat went into the dispatcher’s office. He was 
very quiet as he looked around. The ink had been 
turned over and splattered about in little black 
pools and blotches upon the dispatcher’s desk. 
Micky, however, had not tried to cover up his iden- 


A CLUE 171 

tity. Little black paw-prints profusely decorated 
the books, papers, and reports. Then a trail 
stretched across the floor to the door. 

The dispatcher was trying to wipe up the ink on 
his desk. 

Nat took a deep breath. “Can I help you any?” 
he asked, anxiously. 

The dispatcher turned sharply. “What do you 
know about payrolls?” 

“Nothing,” Nat answered, in a low voice. 

“Of course you don’t. How’d you expect to 
help me then?” 

Nat stirred uneasily. “I’m sorry,” he ventured. 

“Well, here.” The dispatcher tossed a cloth at 
him. “Wipe up those marks on the floor.” 

Nat dampened the cloth at a faucet and started 
to wipe up the tracks. By rubbing very hard he 
could get most of the stains out, leaving only a dim, 
grayish blur. 

When he had finished he went back to the cook¬ 
house to wash Micky, but Scotty had taken him 
away. Upon the back porch he listened for a mo¬ 
ment as he heard men talking in Scotty’s cabin. 
He went over, rapped on the door, and called, 
“Oh, Scotty!” 

“Come in.” Scotty opened the door quickly. 

“Where’s Micky?” Nat looked at the three log¬ 
gers in the cabin; then he discovered Micky, curled 


172 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


up and fast sleep on the warm floor beside the stove. 
“Oh, you washed him,” said Nat delightedly. 

“Sure! He was an awful mess.” 

Nat sat down on the foot of Scotty’s cot. 

“Veil now, vat’s th’ matter vid you, Punk? Iss 
you hafing troubles vid de coon?” Axel, the lum¬ 
berjack, who occupied the cabin with Scotty, got 
up from his chair, took his pipe from his mouth, and 
blew a puff of smoke ceilingward. He was a tall, 
powerful Norwegian, who had drifted down from 
the north woods to the redwood lumber camps. He 
had big, homely features and thick, corn-colored 
hair that grew straight out from his head. 

Nat frowned. “I don’t know what to do about 
him,” he said. 

One of the loggers on Axel’s cot turned from the 
magazine he was reading. “Chain him up,” he 
suggested. 

“Naw!” A logger at the table put his newspa¬ 
per down. “Tliat’d make him meaner than a wild¬ 
cat.” 

Snappy Dillon came in, followed by Adams Cluff, 
who, without $ word, sat down beside Nat on Scotty’s 
cot and began to read. Dillon pulled a bench to the 
stove. “Throw him in th’ river. Pie’s nuthin’ but 
a nuisance, anyhow!” lie had heard the men talk¬ 
ing about the coon as he entered. 

“Well,” Scotty said, “the dispatcher ought’a had 


A CLUE 


173 


a contraption for his ink like Paul Bunyan’s book¬ 
keeper had, and then Micky couldn’t have spilt it.” 

Axel’s homely mouth spread into a grin. “Yah? 
How vas dat?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes. 

Turning to Axel in surprise, Scotty inquired, 
“Didn’t I ever tell you about Johnny Inkslinger?” 
And he hastened to recite: 

“Paul had a thrifty bookkeeper, 

Johnny Inkslinger was his name; 

’Twas awful hard to save on ink, 

But he did it just the same. 

“In a year just fifty barrels 

Johnny saved, now if you please, 

By omitting all the dots on i’s, 

And crosses on the t’s. 

“And Johnny never wasted time, 

With ink his pen to fill; 

He rigged up a contraption 
That he used with utmost skill. 

“A hose he deftly fastened 

Prom pen to barrel, and then 
He had a steady flow of ink 
Prom the barrel to his pen.” 

“Yah!” Axel drew deeply on his pipe. “I 
heerd about dat over in Nort Dakota.” 

“Were you in North Dakota when Paul Bunyan 
was logging that country off into a prairie?” The 


t 


174 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

logger lying on Axel’s cot laid aside his magazine 
and started to roll a cigarette. 

Axel shook his head vigorously. “No-o,” he 
said, “I vas in Minnesota dat time. But I vorked 
for Paul Bunyan ofer in Nort Dakota once. Yah!” 
Axel was very serious as he went on. “In Nort 
Dakota’s Paul’s mans vas yust so crazy for sugar! 
Dey nefer had sugar dishes on de tables in de eating- 
rooms in lies camp. Dey yust took’d vun pair of 
oxes to vun beeg vagon fulled vid sugar an’ den dis 
oxes yust vould pull an’ pull it oup an’ down on de 
meedle uf dat table from vun end to de odder. It 
keep’d two vaitors just so beesy shoffling de sugar 
in dem curfee cups. Yah!” 

“Some table!” Scotty laughed heartily. 

“And, oh, boy!” Nat said. “They were awful 
fond of prunes, too. It kept two freighting outfits 
busy hauling the prune pits away from the cook¬ 
house. Somehow, the chipmunks around camp got 
hold of the pits and ate them. And they grew so 
big that in later years the people killed them for 
tigers. 

“When they were here, the fleas pestered them 
nearly to death; and these just kept growing and 
growing, and got so bothersome that the men 
couldn’t sleep nights, and old Babe was just about 
eaten up by ’em. They got to be such a nuisance 
that Paul had to set traps to catch ’em. Finally, 


A CLUE 


175 


when he caught ’em all, he crated ’em up and shipped 
’em to Australia, where they are now known as kan¬ 
garoos.” 

Scotty’s mustache bristled as he laughed uproari¬ 
ously. And Axel said in his loud voice, “Yah! I 
bat day vas!” 

The loggers, excepting Cluff and Dillon, doubled 
up with laughter, but one of them managed to say, 
“I think you’re mistaken about Paul shipping them 
all away. There’s plenty left in the woods. Maybe 
not so big as kangaroos, but they’re plenty big 
enough!” And they all laughed again. 

Nat liked these men. They were powerful men, 
like Paul Bunyan and his loggers. And they ac¬ 
complished gigantic tasks, just as Paul Bunyan 
had. They felled giant trees, which were shipped 
away to be made into lumber, and eventually into 
buildings. They helped to build indirectly, for if 
there were no lumberjacks there would be no lum¬ 
ber. They were a part of the working world. He 
liked them, and felt proud to think that he was 
working with them. 

Suddenly he thought of the Lone Pine robbery, 
and of the footprints leading to Camp Redwood. 
“But,” he thought, “they’re not all honorable. 
There’s at least one around this camp who is a thief. 
And I’m going to find out who he is.” He looked 
around at the loggers. “I’ll watch the shoes of 


176 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

every man in this camp till I find the one that made 
that mark on the trail!” His heart thumped faster 
and his eyes were bright, as an unaccountable feel¬ 
ing swept over him that the man was in the cabin 
at that very moment. He glanced warily about, 
trying to see the sole of the shoe on the right foot 
of each of the men, except Scotty and Axel. “I 
know them ; they’re my friends,” he said to him¬ 
self. 

Cluff and Dillon and the other logger sitting at 
the table had their feet squarely on the floor. He 
looked at the shoes of the logger lying on Axel’s 
cot. “ ’Twasn’t him. He has new half-soles.” 

For fifteen minutes Nat sat listening to the men 
and trying to see the soles of their shoes. Finally 
he got up and went over to the stove. “Micky, wake 
up,” he said loudly, as he shook his little pet. 

“Going, Nat?” Scotty asked. 

“Yes. Thanks for washing Micky. He’s dry 
now and there’s not a trace of ink on him. Well, 
g’night fellows.” He picked up Micky and went 
out, as Axel and Scotty answered, “S’long, Nat.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE SKY-LINE 

« 

The following days were busy ones for 1STat. The 
evenings were long, and sometimes he joined the 
men in the bunk-houses, or out in a clump of alders 
beside the cabins, and listened to their yarns. 

The forest was filled with the fragrance of the 
sweet-smelling trillium lilies. Ferns, growing in 
the crevices of rocks and old logs, uncurled new 
green fronds. 

Every day, on his way to and from work, Nat 
stopped to look at a huge old maple, growing on the 
bank of Little River. Ferns grew in a fringe on 
one of the moss-covered limbs that jutted out high 
above the water. White dogwood flowers bloomed 
on a tall tree beside the footbridge. Yellow pan¬ 
sies grew in little patches at the edge of the forest. 

He often took Micky frog-hunting in the marsh 
in back of Camp Redwood, where he found golden 
swamp buttercups and red columbines and orange- 
red leopard-lilies. 

On the mountain he found feathery plumes of 

177 


178 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

squaw grass. Purple iris and scarlet paint-brushes 
grew in the brushy open places. He loved to look 
at the wild flowers, but he seldom picked them. He 
thought they looked more beautiful in the woods 
where they grew than in his cabin. When he found 
the tiny everlasting blossoms growing in clusters, 
and the azaleas covered with heavy waxlike blos¬ 
soms, he knew that summer had come; and always, 
with the beginning of summer, came the danger of 
forest fires. To guard against them, all brush and 
logs lying near the track were cleared away. A 
newly painted barrel, filled with water, was put on 
each end of all wooden trestles. Water tanks at 
each camp were kept filled. 

Every pay-day Nat cashed his check and put most 
of his money away in his trunk. By the first of 
June he had saved seventy-five dollars out of his pay, 
bringing the total amount of his savings, including 
the money received for his furs, up to $165.85. He 
was thrilled to think that he had saved so much, and 
was very anxious to send his money to a bank in 
Eureka, where it would be safe. Pie had mentioned 
it to Mr. Higgins, who had promised to take it in 
for him on his next trip to town. 

The boy still believed that the green light he had 
seen and the footprint on the Lone Pine trail were 
connected with the Lone Pine robbery. He had 
carefully watched for a similar footprint in Camp 


THE SKY-LINE 179 

Redwood; and, though he had expected to find one, 
he was startled when he really saw a print made 
by the same shoe. It was in a dusty spot by the 
steps leading into the dining-room. He showed 
it to Scotty, who was greatly surprised. 

The area around the landing at Camp 25, where 
Nat worked, had been logged off as far as the main 
line would reach. Across the canyon, and on top 
of the mountain opposite, the timber had been felled 
and was ready to be hauled in. It was impossible, 
however, to build a railroad track there without 
building a very high bridge. 

Harrison had decided on a cheaper and equally 
efficient way. A tree on the mountain was topped 
and rigged, to be used as a high-pole. A donkey 
engine was moved across the canyon to pull the logs 
in to the landing. Then a steel cable, called a “sky¬ 
line,” was stretched across the canyon from pole 
to pole. 

The logs were taken across by a carriage hang¬ 
ing from the skyline, this, in turn, being pulled 
by the donkey at the landing in Camp 25. 

Nat strung his whistle wire from the donkey en¬ 
gine to a large stump. He had a fine view of the 
surrounding country now, and could watch the logs 
as they were dragged down the mountain, bump¬ 
ing, sliding, and then thundering along up the other 
side to the landing where they were loaded. 


180 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


He liked to watch the carriage as it ran along, 
high in the air, and he wished that he could ride 
on it. 

One Monday evening in the latter part of June, 
a week after they had started to log with the sky¬ 
line, 1ST at heard a strangely familiar whistle as he 
and Irving were going home from work. 

“What’s that?” he said, as he stopped to listen. 

Irving stopped, also. They were standing at the 
top of the mountain where the trail started down 
to Camp Redwood, and they could look far out over 
the forest in the direction from which the whistle 
sounded. 

“Too-oo, too-oo, toot-toot!” 

“Sounds to me like old 33.” Nat’s eyes were 
round as he cupped his hand behind his ear. 

“I’ll bet it is,” Irving said. 

“Sure it is!” Nat exclaimed jubilantly. “Let’s 
hurry and see her when she comes into camp.” He 
started on, with Irving swinging along behind. 

Just as they joined Higgins, Mrs. Higgins, 
Emma, and the men, who had gathered on the cook¬ 
house porch, a trail of white smoke was seen above, 
the trees in the lower end of camp, and a series of 
short whistles announced that “33” was coming 
back home. 

She came proudly up the track, elegant in her 
shiny black paint. Bright yellow figures were 


181 


THE SKY-LINE 

painted on her number plates and tender. “Clang, 
clang!” Her bell rang out clear and loud as Shorty 
brought her to a stop. No child was ever prouder 
of a new toy than Shorty was of his reclaimed en¬ 
gine, as the men gathered around to admire the old 
favorite in her renewed youth. 

“How’s she running, Shorty?” Nat asked. 

“Slick as a whistle, and she hums like a new top. 
Climb in the cab and look her over.” 

Nat accepted the invitation. “Pretty neat,” he 
exclaimed, touching the shining brass handles on the 
air valves. He pulled the whistle cord with satis¬ 
faction, and then, stepping over to the fireman’s seat, 
pulled another cord that rang the bell. 

The fireman laughed. “Want to be a fireman, 
Nat?” 

“No, I think I’d rather be the engineer.” 

“What do you think of her?” asked Shorty. 

“She’s a beauty now, isn’t she?” The hoy pulled 
the bell cord again. 

“Want to take a ride to the roundhouse?” 
Shorty went to his seat at the right-hand side of the 
cab. 

“If you’ll let me run her! Will you?” 

“All right.” Shorty moved back in his seat and 
Nat climbed up in front of him. The fireman rang 
the bell and the boy tooted the whistle, released the 
brakes, and opened the throttle. His chest swelled 


182 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

with pride as he felt the engine slowly start. He 
almost wished he were an engineer. 

“Oh, Scotty,” he asked later, “did you ever see 
a skyline?” 

“Sure,” Scotty answered. “Why?” 

“Interesting, aren’t they?” 

“Why, yes. Are they working a skyline now?” 

“Yes,” Nat replied. “We finished that one place 
up and have started with a skyline on the other side 
of the canyon.” 

“I don’t understand,” Scotty said, cocking his 
eye at the boy, “why Harrison don’t do like Paul 
did in Minnesota. You know, when Paul was log¬ 
ging off that country over there, and they were get¬ 
ting short of logs in the pond, he just hitched Babe 
to a great big cable and drove him around the area, 
dragging the cable behind him. When he got it 
all laid out he made Babe give that cable a jerk, 
and those trees were just naturally jerked right 
out of the ground, roots and all, and pulled into the 
mill.” 

“But I don’t think that’d work very well here in 
the redwoods,” Nat laughed. “They’re so brittle 
they’d be broken all to pieces by the time he got them 
to the mill.” 

“That’s right, Nat; mebbe they would,” Scotty 
agreed. 

When Nat went to work the next morning he 


THE SKY-LINE 183 

walked up the trail alone, for Jack Irving had been 
called to Mallard, where the Shannon Company’s 
mill was, to attend a metting of camp bosses. lie 
felt somewhat lonely as he climbed to his seat on 
the stump to which the whistle wire was stretched. 

The hooktender, a big, square-jawed lumber¬ 
jack, had never been very friendly. He and 
Snappy Dillon were unlike most of the other log¬ 
gers. 

The whistle blew and the men started to work. 
A log was encircled by a choker and hooked at the 
end of the main line. 

“Hey!” shouted the hooktender. 

Nat was alert, and jerked the whistle wire once. 

“Toot!” The whistle on the donkey engine 
sounded, and the log started across the canyon. 

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” shouted the hooktender. 

“Three for an easy pull,” Nat thought to him¬ 
self, as he jerked the whistle wire three times. Af¬ 
ter a few logs had been pulled in, the hooktender, 
who always attended to the camp boss’s duties when 
the latter was away, walked over to the high-pole 
at the railroad track, where men were loading logs 
on cars, leaving Dillon, the head rigger, to give 
the calls. 

Nat was very busy that morning. He had heard 
the men talking about not getting out enough logs, 
and knew that was the reason the bosses had been 


184 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

called in to Mallard. “And now,” he thought, “the 
hooktender and Dillon want to make a good show¬ 
ing while Irving’s away. I guess they want a camp 
boss’s job, too!” He jerked twice on the wire as 
he heard Dillon shout, “Hey! hey!” “Well,” he 
mused, “I guess I can jerk this old line just as fast 
as he can give the signals.” 

He listened to the whistle on the yarder, a don¬ 
key engine being used to yard the logs in to the land- 

* 

ing across the canyon. “Bet I can blow the whistle 
on my donkey engine louder than the punk on that 
yarder can,” Nat thought to himself. Every time 
the rigger shouted, he grinned, and pulled with all 
his might. In the afternoon the trip line broke, 
and, while the rigging crew was splicing it, Nat 
stretched out on the stump to rest. 

“Hey!” came the strident call of the rigger, and 
Nat’s arm reached up mechanically and pulled the 
whistle wire. “Toot!” Suddenly there was a 
snap, and the skyline broke in the center. With a 
loud singing “whang-g-g,” the ends flew through 
the air with terrific force, curling around the don¬ 
key engine and high-pole like a spring. Most of the 
landing crew ran to clear, but two men who were not 
so quick narrowly escaped being killed by the huge 
snakelike cable. 

Springing to his feet, Nat stared in amazement. 
The hooktender shouted to Dillon, who was coming 


THE SKY-LINE 185 

out from behind a stump. He swore violently. 
“Hid you give that ‘go ahead’ signal? What’s th’ 
matter, haven’t you been in th’ woods long enough 
to—” 

“I yelled twice, a 'come back’ signal, but that kid 
pulled the whistle only once. Go after him, he’s 
the one that caused this mix-up!” 

A bewildered expression swept over Nat’s face 
as he saw the hooktender whirl and come toward 
him, with the rigger following. 

“What’s the big idea? What’re you tryin’ to 
do, kill all us men, besides tyin’ up th’ works fer th’ 
rest o’ th’ day?” 

Nat’s eyes flashed. “I heard him yell once and 
I pulled the line once!” he said with emphasis in his 
voice. 

“Say,” Dillon spoke up, “you’re dreaming, kid! 
I yelled twice. C’mon down off’a that stump an’ 
go home. We don’t need th’ likes o’ you in th’ woods. 
You’ll have plenty a time fer tomfoolery from now 
on!” 

For a moment Nat did not know what to do. 
It had all happened so suddenly. He stared at the 
two men as they went over to the broken line. Then 
his face flamed as he thought of having lost his job. 
He got down from the stump and walked toward 
the trail. His eyes smarted and tears hung in his 
black lashes as he passed the redwood stump where 



186 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

he and Irving had watched the choppers fell the 
twenty-foot tree. 

His thoughts were bitter. “I’m just like that 
tree. I’ve lost my job. I’ve fallen down. Now 
I never’ll be able to save enough money to go to 
school. I’ll have to go back and work in the cook¬ 
house. But will they take me back? I’d hate to 
ask Higgins for my old job again since I’ve quit 
once. And I’d sure hate to work with Adams Cluff 
again!” His throat tightened as he started down 
the mountain. He’d hate to tell Scotty and Hig¬ 
gins and Emma about losing his job. And all the 
loggers, his friends, and Jack Irving and Harrison 
and Patsy! 

“I won’t go home!” He stopped suddenly. 
Looking over the tops of the trees below him, he 
saw the cook-house. He smiled sorrowfully. “I’ll 
run away, that’s what I’ll do!” 

He slipped his hand into his overalls pocket. 
“Hm-m-m! Two nickels,” he said aloud, “won’t 
take me far. I’d have to go to my cabin and get 
my money. And there’s Micky! Guess there’s 
no use in running away right now, ’cause they’ll all 
know I feel sorry. Gee, I don’t want them to know 
how I feel! I won’t let on. I’ll just act as if it’s 
nothing and I don’t care. That’s what I’ll do.” 
He walked on down the trail. When he came to 
the foot-bridge he looked at the dogwood tree with 


THE SKY-LINE 187 

its blossoms, but it seemed only a huge white blur. 
Pausing a moment, he brushed his shirt sleeve across 
his eyes, swallowed hard, straightened, and hurried 
across the bridge. 

As he neared his cabin he heard music inside that 
sounded very familiar. He started to run, and 
bounded through the doorway. “Old Timer! 
Gee! I’m glad to see you! When did you come? 
Haven’t seen you for ages.” 

“Jist a while ago. I struck pay dirt an’ made 
a clean-up, so thought I’d better be gittin’ to Eureka 
an’ shippin’ all my gold to th’ mint. T’ain’t safe 
to have too much aroun’.” 

“Did you get very much, Old Timer?” Nat asked, 
eagerly. 

“Oh tolerable, tolerable. Say, Nat, I fetched 
my fishin’ hook an’ line, an’ we’ll go fishin’ in th’ 
mornin’ before y’ go to work. Hector tole me y’ 
had a new job.” 

Nat’s gaze fell. “You bet we will,” he said, with¬ 
out enthusiasm. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” Old Timer stroked 
his long beard and stared at the boy. “Y’ look 
sort o’ crestfallen.” 

“Old Timer,” Nat said quietly, “I lost my job 
to-day.” 

“You don’t say! How’d that happen?” 

Nat sat down on his cot and Old Timer dragged 


188 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

a chair up, sat down, and started to fill his pipe. 
Nat explained just what had happened. When he 
had finished the old man asked, incredulously, “An’ 
yer goin’ to let them fellers pin that on y’ V ’ 

“Well,” Nat answered, “I don’t know what to 
do about it.” 

“Crickety, boy! I don’t either; but we’ll see, 
we’ll see.” 

Nat got up and walked to the door. “How’s 
Jubilo?” he asked, as he looked out toward the alder 
trees in back of the cabin, where the burro was stand¬ 
ing. 

“Jist as pert as ever! How’s Micky? I stopped 
up the crick a ways, threw my hook an’ line in, an’ 
caught a trout fer ’im, but I ain’t seen hide nor hair 
of ’im since I got here.” 

“I suppose he’s in the cellar. He sleeps down 
there where it’s nice and cool all day and then prowls 
around at night. I’ll go and get him.” 

When Nat returned with his pet, Old Timer gave 
the coon his present, and both laughed when Micky 
took the fish straight to the little pool under the drip¬ 
ping faucet beside the cabin, where he washed it, 
as was his custom. 

Nat did not leave his cabin until the supper bell 
rang. He didn’t want to go in to eat. He said he 
had a headache. But Old Timer refused to go 
without him, so he followed the old prospector in 


THE SKY-LINE 189 

and sat down in his place beside Axel at a table near 
the kitchen door. 

The lumberjacks had all taken their places at the 
long tables, and Nat could see Dillon and the hook- 
tender who had fired him, sitting to his right. He 
glanced at them, and then, as he felt the color mount¬ 
ing to his face, turned his head. 

Mrs. Higgins poured a glass of milk for Old 
Timer, then filled Nat’s glass. “How are you to¬ 
night, Nat?” she asked. 

“Fine,” the boy answered calmly, but as he raised 
the glass to his lips his hand trembled and he spilled 
some of the milk. He set the glass down again. 
Though he had tried to seem casual, he was certain 
that Mrs. Higgins had noticed something wrong, 
for when she went into the kitchen he saw her speak 
to Higgins, and then both turned and smiled at him. 
He tried to eat, but it was of no use. He was glad 
when Axel finished his supper, got up, and walked 
out, followed by three or four other loggers. “Now 
I can go,” he thought, “and no one will think any¬ 
thing about it.” He got up slowly and went to his 
cabin. 

In a few minutes Mrs. Higgins came in. “Aren’t 
you feeling well, Nat?” she asked anxiously, as she 
sat down on his cot beside him. 

“Yes, I’m all right.” Nat did not look at her 
and his voice was a little shaky. 


190 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“You didn’t eat any supper,” the friendly woman 
said in a tone of anxiety. 

Nat tried to smile. “I didn’t want much. I’ve 
a little headache.” And then he thought quickly, 
“I’d better tell her. They’ll all know it, anyway.” 
Pie said aloud, “I’m not going to work in the woods 
any more. I got fired to-day.” 

“Fired!” Mrs. Higgins frowned, as she said in 
a troubled voice, “Why, Nat! I can hardly believe 
it! How did it happen?” She listened anxiously 
as Nat explained exactly what had happened. 
When he finished she spoke consolingly. “Well, 
never mind. Don’t worry. I’m sure there must 
be a mistake.” She gave his hand a friendly pat 
and left the cabin. 

It was quite late when Old Timer came in, for 
right after supper he had gone to the company store, 
where he had ordered supplies to take home with 
him. 

Nat did not mention his trouble again that eve¬ 
ning, nor did Old Timer. They talked about min¬ 
ing, and the prospector promised the boy that some 
day, if he had a chance, he would show him how to 
hunt for gold. 

After the old man had played a tune on his fiddle 
he undressed, dropped into one of his boots at the 
foot of his cot the chamois sack of gold he had 
brought, and went to bed. 


THE SKY-LINE 


191 


Nat switched off the light and sank down on his 
cot, with his head in his hands and his elbows on his 
knees. His throat ached, and his heart was filled 
with hopelessness. 




CHAPTER XIV 

A ROBBERY 

Early the next morning Old Timer opened his 
eyes, stretched and yawned. Glancing across the 
cabin he said loudly, “Hi, there! Are y’ ready to go 
fishin’?” 

There was no answer. 

He got up and looked at Nat’s cot. “Well, that 
beats me,” he said slowly. “The boy’s gone. Guess 
he’s eatin’ breakfast. S’funny he didn’t call me.” 
Reaching for his boot, he ran his hand down into 
the foot where he had left the sack of gold. He 
straightened quickly, grabbed the other boot, and 
turned it upside down. He peered closely into 
one boot and then into the other. He shook them 
both, but found nothing. His gold was gone 1 

For a moment he sat stroking his shaggy beard, 
then scratched his head thoughtfully. “Purty 
queer. There’s been a thief here last night, or else 
th’ lumberjacks are playin’ a joke on me.” He 
slipped on his overalls and shirt, pulled on his boots, 
and started to the cook-house. He met Axel and 


192 


A ROBBERY 193 

three other loggers on the walk near *Nat’s cabin. 
“Say, which one o’ you fellers been playin’ a joke 
on me?” he inquired, looking at them sharply. 

Axel looked mystified. “By yiminy, vare dey 
iss I know nott.” He felt in his pockets and looked 
around at the other men. 

“Where’s what?” Old Timer asked, suspiciously. 

“I yust did not fine my votch und mine moneys 
ven I luke for dem. I tank I ban robbed. Dit any 
you fellas miss sometings?” 

“Miss something? Well, I guess I did. Hooked 
all over the cabin for my watch and check,” said 
one of the loggers. 

Old Timer burst out, “Y’ don’t mean to tell me 
ye’ve all been cleaned?” 

“By yiminy, I tink so. Yah.” Axel searched 
his pockets again. “You miss sometings?” 

“My gold!” Old Timer exclaimed; and shaking 
his fist threateningly, he added, “If I find th’ low- 
down sneak that took it, I’ll fix ’im good an’ plenty.” 
His heavy boots clumped on the board walk as he 
went on to the kitchen, with Micky following. 

Scotty stood at the big range, frying cakes, while 
Emma was stacking them on platters. 

Old Timer looked around for Nat but did not see 
him. “Anyone here seen Nat?” he asked. 

“Nat?” Emma looked around. “Why I sup¬ 
pose lie’s in his cabin.” 


194 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“No,” Old Timer shook his head and said slowly, 
“I jist came from there.” 

“He’s just around somewhere,” Scotty said in¬ 
differently. 

Old Timer was not satisfied. He didn’t think 
that Nat would go fishing without his breakfast and 
without waiting for him. He looked very grave 
as he asked, “Where’s Higgins? Mebbe he knows 
where th’ boy is.” 

Just then Higgins came in. But he had not seen 
Nat. 

Cluff stepped up to take Scotty’s place at the 
range. “Scotty, go ring the gong,” he commanded. 

“Yes, we’re late now. That ought to bring him 
in,” Higgins said. 

But Nat did not come in. The lumber j acks, how¬ 
ever, filed in and noisily took their places at the 
table, talking excitedly about the robbery. Old 
Timer quietly took his seat, leaving Nat’s place, 
between himself and Axel, empty. 

The hooktender from Camp 25, sitting at a table 
at his right, looked up from his cakes. “He sure 
cleaned me good; got about seventy-five dollars and 
my watch.” 

“I guess he cleaned the camp!” exclaimed Snappy 
Dillon, who was sitting beside the hooktender. 

One of the lumberjacks suddenly roared, “What 
th’-?” As he looked under the table he shouted, 



A ROBBERY 195 

“Get that coon out of here!” He gave a kick, and 
Micky came bounding out. The man called out, 
“Hey Punk!” Then looking at Nat’s empty place, 
he asked, “Where’s that kid?” As he spoke, all 
eyes were directed to the vacant place. 

The hooktender cocked his eye at the rigger. 
“Yeh,” he said, “where’s that kid?” 

Dillon sneered, and said loudly, “He wanted to 
go to school pretty bad, didn’t he?” His meaning 
was clear. 

The lumberjack stared at him, and Axel started 
to get up. But Old Timer had already risen. His 
eyes never left Dillon as he took long strides, reached 
his man, grasped him by the shoulders, and pulled 
him to his feet. 

Dillon shrugged and tried to sit down, but Old 
Timer jerked him up again, roaring, “Take that 
back! Eat yer words, y’ ornery critter!” 

Dillon was not afraid of Old Timer himself, but 
he was afraid of Axel and Nat’s friends, and he 
hastily whined, “I didn’t mean a thing wrong. Jlist 
naturally inquired, that’s all.” 

Old Timer gave him a shove and let him go. 

After that the men quietly ate their breakfast, 
and the robbery was not mentioned again. Those 
who had been robbed, after they had finished eating, 
walked to the main office to report what had been 
stolen. 


196 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

But Old Timer hastened to Nat’s cabin. He 
wondered if Nat really had gone fishing without 
him. But he shook his head as he found his fishing 
pole standing in the corner of the cabin. “By 
ginger!” he said aloud. “I’m afraid somethin’ 
tumble’s happened to the boy.” lie stood in the 
door, not knowing what to do, when Jack Irving 
and Axel stepped up. 

“Nat come back yet?” Irving asked. “Axel, 
here, tells me that lie’s missing.” 

“He’s not here!” Old Timer shook his head. 

Irving frowned. “Strange,” he said. Then he 
added, “That hooktender and Dillon are responsible 
for this. I’ve learned from Axel that they run Nat 
off the job yesterday, through no fault of his own. 
Axel was there and heard the rigger give the ‘go 
ahead’ signal that broke the skyline when he should 
have given the ‘come back’ signal, and they are try¬ 
ing to pin it on Nat. Axel didn’t know at the time 
that the hooktender had fired the kid, but this morn¬ 
ing before breakfast he heard the rigger talking to 
some of the men about it.” 

“By yiminy, yee, dat’s right! Yah!” Axel 
felt in his pocket for his watch, and frowned. 
“Someboddies yust tak my votch!” 

Irving pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced 
at it, and said quickly, “You’d better go on to work, 
Axel. I want to see Harrison before I go.” Turn- 


A ROBBERY 197 

ing to Old Timer, he added, “I’ll be back after a 
while. You’re not going right away, are you?” 

“No, siree! Not till that boy’s found!” Old 
Timer asserted. 

Soon he heard Scotty calling, and when he went 
to the cook-house he found Harrison, Hank, Irv¬ 
ing, and the cook-house crew, standing on the back 
porch. 

Harrison, tall and slender, his face clean-shaven 
and tanned, asked Old Timer, “You don’t suppose 
Nat’s gone to Hector’s, do you?” 

“T’ain’t likely,” was the slow answer. 

Emma’s eyes filled with tears, as she said, “I’m 
afraid he’s lost in the forest, and if he is he’ll never 
be found!” 

“Something’s got to be done! I’ll not rest a min¬ 
ute till that boy’s back here safe and sound.” Mrs. 
Higgins clasped her hands and twisted them nerv¬ 
ously. “Higgins,” she asked chokingly, “can’t you 
do something?” 

“Oh, he’ll probably come drifting in after a while.” 
Though Higgins spoke consolingly, he frowned and 
his mouth was grim. 

Scotty did not say anything. He was unable 
to speak. With his arms folded, he walked slowly 
back and forth across the porch. 

“I don’t think he is lost,” spoke up Irving. 

“Naw,” Hank said. “He knows the trails well. 


198 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

He’s gone on many a trip with me. And he knows 
better than to get off the trail. He ain’t lost.” 

Irving looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. 
Everything sure went haywire when I was away 
yesterday. If Nat turns up, send him back to work; 
if he doesn’t, why, I’d be glad to help look for him.” 

He started away, but Harrison said, “Just a min¬ 
ute, Irving. Send the hooktender and the head 
rigger to my office right away.” He was thoughtful 
for a moment, and then added, “Be a good idea to 
put Axel on as hooktender. What d’you think?” 

“You bet!” Irving said emphatically, as he went 
swinging down the track toward the footbridge. 

Harrison looked worried as he turned to Higgins. 
“Good grief!” he said. “I don’t know what to do 
about Nat.” 

“We-ell,” Old Timer suggested, “if he ain’t here 
in a few hours I’d better go out to Hector’s. He 
might be there, an’, if he ain’t there, t’wouldn’t be 
a bad idee to go to th’ cruiser’s camp an’ look 
aroun’.” The old prospector had not forgotten 
the treatment that Nat received from Darrow the 
night of the storm. 

“All right, Old Timer, I’ll go down the track to 
the main office and see what was taken from the men 
last night.” Harrison frowned. “You can just 
believe that the robbery was the work of experi¬ 
enced thieves. No amateur could go through the 


A ROBBERY 199 

cabins without waking up some one. I’ll be back 
after a while.” 

Scotty sighed deeply as he followed Higgins and 
Mrs. Higgins into the kitchen. 

“Guess I better take Jubilo up to th’ cattle sheds, 
till we find out what Harrison wants t’do,” Old 
Timer said, as he turned to Jake. 

“Sure!” exclaimed Jake. “Why didn’t you 
bring him up last night?” 

“I left him in the alders ’cause I wanted to git 
an early start to Eureka this mornin’. But they’s 
no sense in goin’ now. I lost my gold.” He got 
Jubilo, and then the two went up the track to the 
cattle sheds. 

It was almost noon when Old Timer and Jake 
returned to Nat’s cabin. As they stepped inside 
they surprised Harrison and Higgins, who were sit¬ 
ting on Nat’s cot, talking earnestly. 

Harrison spoke. “We’ve searched everywhere 
for clues, but we can’t find a thing. Thought Nat 
might have left a note, but there’s none here. His 
bed’s been slept in, for it’s all rumpled up. I’ve 
gone through his trunk and I can’t find his money 
anywhere.” He made a hopeless gesture with his 
hand. 

“Hm-m,” Old Timer said, “I’m goin’ t’ Hec¬ 
tor’s.” 

Jumping into action, Harrison stood up and 


200 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

turned to Jake. “Saddle Dick and bring him here 
for Old Timer to ride,” he ordered. “And if he 
isn’t there I don’t know what we’ll do, but I do know 
this: I’ll have to notify the sheriff of his disappear¬ 
ance, and of the robbery!” 

“Dinner’s almost ready, Old Timer. I’ll fix 
some for you before you go,” Higgins offered. 

“By ginger! I’m not goin’ to stop for dinner. 
I can eat at Hector’s.” Old Timer turned to Jake. 
“Saddle Dick fer me an’ I’ll start out right now, I 
mustn’t lose any time!” 

Harrison smiled. “All right, Old Timer; but 
be sure to get word back as soon as possible.” 

It was noon, and very warm, when the old man 
mounted the horse and started to Hector’s. As he 
went across the swinging bridge and started up the 
mountain on the other side of Little Biver, he 
thought of the time that he and Nat had come along 
the same trail after the boy had taken the cruisers 
to the woods. And he kept his shrewd eyes on the 
trail, hoping that he would find a footprint or a clue 
which would prove that the boy had gone to Hec¬ 
tor’s. 

The trail was steep and rocky and the horse could 
not go very fast until it reached the ridge where Nat 
and Old Timer had, six months before, scraped away 
the snow and built a fire to cook their dinner. Then 
he gained time, as the ridge was almost level, and 


A ROBBERY 201 

in mid-afternoon he rounded the dangerous Devil’s 
Curve. 

Though Old Timer had made the trip from Camp 
Redwood to Devil’s Curve in one-third the time 
that he usually did, he felt that he had been riding 
all day, for he was very anxious to see whether Nat 
was at Hector’s. He thought, however, that he 
would gain time by letting the horse, which was drip¬ 
ping with sweat, rest at the edge of the dense for¬ 
est which covered the floor of the valley beyond 
Devil’s Curve. 

His heart beat faster and his hands shook with 
eagerness when he resumed the journey. “If Nat 
ain’t at Hector’s,” he promised himself, “I’ll not 
stop till I find ’im!” 

He passed through the valley and climbed the 
mountain, at the top of which was Hector’s cabin. 
He did not stop at the watering-trough outside Hec¬ 
tor’s fence, but went on through the gate and into 
the pasture, where he had caught sight of the old 
hermit, mending the roofs of the goat sheds. “Hi, 
there, Hector!” he shouted, waving his arms. 

Hector gave an answering wave and started to 
climb down. 

“Have y’ seen anything o’ Nat?” Old Timer ques¬ 
tioned at once. 

“Why, no.” Hector was mystified. “Isn’t he 
home?” he asked. 


202 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Old Timer shook his head gravely. “He’s not in 
Camp Redwood. He disappeared last night. The 
camp was ransacked and a lot of money and watches 
was stole. I lost my gold, too! There ain’t no con¬ 
nection between the robbery and Nat’s disappear¬ 
ance, though,” he hastened to add. 

“No!” Hector exclaimed, shaking his head vigo¬ 
rously. “That’s unthinkable. But it’s mighty 
strange—” 

Old Timer interrupted him, explaining that the 
boy had lost his job and had been feeling very badly 
about it when he went to bed. 

Hector whistled softly. “You come up to the 
cabin and get a drink of spring water and I’ll make 
you some sandwiches. We’ll talk this over and 
decide what to do about Nat.” 

He started across the pasture, but turned as Old 
Timer said, “No, thanks, Hector. I got to go on 
to the cruisers’ camp. I’ll come back and stay all 
night with y’. It’ll probably be late.” 

“All right! I’ll stay out here and keep a sharp 
lookout for any one who might happen to pass,” 
Hector volunteered, as the old man rode off without 
another word. 

Old Timer urged his horse on. He was very 
quiet as he rode on and on down the trail, and past 
the place where Nat and the pack train had stopped 
during the terrible storm on the boy’s return from 


A ROBBERY 203 

the cruisers’ camp. He thought the trail had never 
before seemed so long. 

Shadows began to creep up the mountain, and the 
air turned cooler. A dove cooed mournfully and 
was answered by its mate. Old Timer looked 
around at the darkening forest with its impassable 
undergrowth, and shuddered. “What if that boy 
is lost in th’ woods?” he voiced his thoughts. “He 
might have started fer Hector’s an’ lost th’ trail in 
th’ valley, th’ other side of th’ mountain. It’s pitch 
dark in them trees at night.” 

The old man looked straight ahead. His heart 
ached for the missing boy, and he was filled with a 
strange loneliness. The forest grew dark as he 
urged his horse on toward the cruisers’ camp. 


CHAPTER XY 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 

Long after Old Timer had fallen asleep on the 
night of the robbery, Nat lay on his cot, turning rest¬ 
lessly from side to side. He got up once to let Micky 
in when he heard him whining at the door. Then 
he went back to bed, with his pet curled up on the 
foot of his cot, and finally dropped off into fitful 
slumber. 

In the middle of the night something aroused him. 
He stirred uneasily. Two balls of light appeared 
for an instant before his half-closed eyes. He lay 
very quiet, slowly opening his eyes. The cabin was 
pitch-dark and deadly still. He closed his eyes 
again, and waited. 

The two balls of light flashed again. Nat was 
chilled with fear for he knew that a strange person 
was in the cabin, some one who had twice flashed 
a light in his face. His heart beat wildly. He 
opened his eyes again, and without moving his head, 
looked around the room. He tried to pierce the 
blackness. Suddenly a bulky object loomed up 
near the foot of Old Timer’s cot and assumed human 
form. 


204 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 205 

The boy tried to scream, to warn the old man, but 
could not make a sound. His throat was tense, 
and he felt that hammers were pounding on his 
brain, as the object dimly but surely took the form 
of a man. 

Nat’s eyes were wide open now. 

The man straightened. A faint light from the 
open window above Old Timer’s cot fell upon him, 
and a wave of terror swept over the boy as he hoarsely 
cried, “Darrow!” 

Immediately the man leaped across the room. A 
heavy hand covered Nat’s mouth and another 
dragged him to his feet. He struggled to free him¬ 
self, but he soon realized it was useless. 

In a hoarse whisper Darrow said, “Cut it! 
You’re goin’ with me. No use tryin’ to get away!” 
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he tied it 
tightly over the boy’s mouth and around his head. 
“Dress!” he ordered. 

Micky whined and clawed at Darrow’s boot. 
With a vigorous kick the man sent him spinning 
across the cabin. Nat kicked at Darrow, but knew 
that he could not hurt such a powerful man. 

“You dress,” Darrow commanded, “or you’ll go 
without any clothes.” 

Slowly Nat pulled on his overalls and shirt. “If 
I only could wake up Old Timer,” he thought. 
But the old prospector was sleeping soundly. Nat 


206 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


could hear him breathing. “Or if I could get my 
hand on Old Timer’s six-shooter.” He knew that 
the gun was under the old man’s pillow, and that the 
least move he made would bring Darrow upon 
him. 

“Hurry I” Darrow jerked him by the shoulders. 
The boy pulled on his boots, laced them, and reached 
for his mackinaw, which was hanging beside the 
door. 

Darrow pushed him through the doorway. 
Micky growled and pawed at the man’s boots, then 
leaped to Nat. For a moment the boy held him 
tightly, but Darrow forced the little animal from 
his arms. Micky scratched and fought with his 
sharp claws. As Darrow threw him into the cabin 
and swiftly closed the door, Nat heard his pet whine 
painfully. He knew that the coon’s paw had been 
pinched in the door. 

He was furious, but helpless. Angry tears filled 
his eyes. The handkerchief across his mouth was 
stifling. He could hardly breathe. It was very 
dark as Darrow quietly but roughly pulled him 
along by the cabins and started up the track. 

Nat thought quickly. “If I could break away 
I’d run into the brush.” But Darrow’s hand 
gripped his shoulder and not once did the strong 
fingers relax. 

He tried to call out as they passed the Harrisons’ 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 207 

and the last few cabins at the edge of Camp Red¬ 
wood. But it was useless. He could not make a 
sound. 

Harrow stopped near the swinging bridge. He 
stooped down on a log at the edge of the trail, 
dragged Nat down beside him, and took the gag 
from his mouth. 

“No use tryin’ to get away,” he growled. “Fve 
got a gun here on my hip and I’ll use it if you try to 
start anything funny.” 

Nat did not answer, for his mind was working fast. 
He said to himself, “If he’d just loosen his hold for 
a second, I’d break away. It’s so dark he can’t see, 
and only by chance a bullet could hit me. I’d take 
the chance on that.” The terrible fear that had 
swept over him on finding Harrow in his cabin had 
left him. He was calm as he planned action and 
sat quietly waiting for his captor’s next move. 

Soon he heard some one walking on the dry leaves 
behind them, and two men stepped around the end 
of the log. One of them called out in a low voice, 
“Harrow?” 

4 

“Yes,” replied Harrow. 

“Any luck?” 

“The gold an’ a few trinkets.” 

The gold! Nat started, and his teeth came to¬ 
gether with a click, for now he knew what Harrow 
had been doing near Old Timer’s cot. He had 


208 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

taken the old prospector’s gold! And he knew 
that the two men were the other cruisers. lie turned 
cold as he thought that Darrow might have his 
money. 

“We sure cleaned the camps,” one of the men 
spoke up. “All but 25. Big Alex got that.” 

“Where’s Alex now? He was supposed to meet 
us here, to give in the stuff,” Darrow growled. 

“He thought he’d better get back to his cabin in 
Bedwood. He’ll meet us at the same place on the 
Lone Pine trail, day after to-morrow. We got his 
haul.” 

Nat was struck dumb. He couldn’t believe his 
ears. The man had said cabin in Bedwood! Lone 
Pine trail! With a sharp intake of breath he 
thought, “I am right. One of the robbers is in Camp 
Bedwood. But who is he?” Nat knew all the men 
living in Camp Bedwood but he did not know anyone 
called Big Alex. 

Suddenly the two men, startled, jumped back. 
“Who’s that!” one of them demanded. 

Darrow stood up, pulling Nat to his feet. “That 
kid from the cook-house,” he said dryly. He ex¬ 
plained that Nat had recognized him, and that he 
felt that the safest way for all of them was to bring 
the boy along, to prevent him from squealing. 

One of the cruisers swore. “This is a pretty 
kettle of fish,” he said. 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 209 

“Yeah, Darrow, you’re a peach!” exclaimed the 
other. “First time I ever went kidnapping. 
What’re you going to do with the kid?” 

“Do with him? I’ll get rid of him all right. It’s 
a fifty-foot drop from the swingin’ bridge to the 
river,” Darrow threatened. 

“Yeah, but yo’ better not try that.” 

Darrow hesitated a moment, then started across 
the bridge. He pushed Nat on in front of him, 
holding firmly to his shoulder. 

“Did you get much?” he asked the cruisers. 

“Don’t we always?” 

Darrow snorted and went on. 

Nat was alert and watched for a chance to escape 
as they stumbled along the dark trail up the moun¬ 
tain ; but when they turned and went down a ravine 
which he knew led to Little River he lost hope, for 
he knew there would be no chance if they were going 
to cross the river and go through the forest on the 
other side. And he knew he would be safer with the 
cruisers than without them in that forest, for they 
probably had blazed a trail. If not, they would 
all surely be lost. 

On reaching the river, he found that his suspicions 
were correct. 

Darrow spoke up. “Guess it’s safe to use our 
flashlight, now that we’re off the main trail.” He 
threw a beam up and down the river until it fell 


210 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

on an old windfall that reached across the black 
swirling water to a huge boulder on the opposite 
side. 

“Here’s the log. Get across there!” Darrow or¬ 
dered. 

Nat scrambled up. As he started across the slip¬ 
pery log he was thankful for the calks in his boots, 
which bit into the wood and kept him from falling 
into the river that he could hear sullenly booming 
below. 

“It’s a good thing we blazed a trail through this 
forest. It sure cuts off several miles. If we’d had 
to go around by that old hermit’s place, we’d be all 
day to-morrow getting to camp,” one of the cruisers 
said, when they all were safely across and had 
started up the mountain. 

Nat was very quiet as he walked along in the pencil 
of light that pierced the darkness for only a few 
yards ahead of him. Sometimes he had to walk 
on wet, moss-covered logs and through thick en¬ 
tanglements of bracken and vines, with Darrow close 
behind, roughly forcing him on. 

After about three hours the party came to a 
densely wooded plateau, where fire had burned the 
underbrush, leaving a smooth floor. Darrow was 
in the lead now, for he knew that Nat would not try 
to escape in the forest. 

Nat followed Darrow, with the others in the rear. 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 211 

It seemed to the boy that the black forest was omi¬ 
nously closing in around him. Looking up he could 
see nothing through the inky darkness. The thickly 
growing, densely covered limbs formed an impene¬ 
trable mass above him. 

Suddenly a twig snapped to their right. 

Darrow whirled, flashed a beam of light in that 
direction, and asked swiftly, “What’s that?” 

The men behind Nat threw their lights to the 
same spot, but they could see only the forest. 

“Nothin’, I guess.” Darrow answered his own 
question and started on. The man who had been 
walking behind Nat stepped up between the boy 
and Darrow. 

They had gone only a few yards when they again 
heard the noise to their left. They stopped and 
listened, and heard a low growl that could not be 
mistaken. 

“That’s a cougar,” Darrow whispered tensely. 

“Yes,” Nat tried to speak calmly, “that’s what it 
is. Jake told me about them.” 

The men stood close together. “What’ll we do?” 
one of the cruisers asked nervously. “First time 
I ever run up against anything like that.” 

“Say,” the other cruiser spoke in a hoarse whis¬ 
per, “let’s run!” 

“Ah, dry up!” Darrow pulled a revolver from 
the holster on his hip. 



212 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The animal growled again, but this time it seemed 
a little farther away. 

“We’ll go get ’im.” Harrow started to move 
forward. 

“Meaning you not we/ J one of the men replied. 

“No, sir!” exclaimed Nat. “Jake said he’s been 
followed by a mountain lion several times, and un¬ 
less you’re sure of killing it, don’t shoot. It’s liable 
to spring and get you if you just wound it.” 

Darrow laughed. “Aw, we’re wastin’ time. 
C’mon.” He put the revolver back in the holster 
and started forward. 

The three men were now walking ahead of Nat, 
and he could see only dimly where to step, as they 
hid the light from the path. As he stumbled along 
he thought, “I’ll not step up between those men. 
No, sir, not even if I have no gun and no light.” 
Hearing the low growl again, he turned his head 
and saw, a few yards directly behind him, two balls of 
glowing fire. He stopped, trembling with fear. 
ITis teeth chattered, but he made no sound. 

“C’mon, what’s the matter?” Darrow said 
roughly; then, looking back, he also saw the glar¬ 
ing eyes. Pie swore, and the other men looked. 

“Let’s run!” one of them suggested in a quiver¬ 
ing voice. 

“No, don’t run!” Nat found his voice. “If you 


THROUGH THE BLACK FOREST 213 

run, he’ll run after you. The only thing to do is be 
calm and walk right on.” 

Darrow didn’t seem anxious to go after the ani¬ 
mal now, but started on in a fast walk, the other 
men following close behind him. 

Though Nat was quaking, not once did he try 
to step between the men. With a desperate effort 
he overcame his impulse to run. Twice he looked 
back to see if the animal was following, but he did 
not see or hear it again. 

He was weary but hopeful, an hour later, when 
the party reached the edge of the forest. He won¬ 
dered how he could escape. It was lighter now, 
and the sun would soon come up over the moun¬ 
tains. He thought, “If they all keep walking in 
front of me I’ll dash into the thick brush just as 
soon as I can see a good chance—I think I know 
just about where we are—and I’ll hide out till day¬ 
light and then hunt for the trail to Hector’s.” He 
smiled grimly as he thought of the cougar, but he 
thought, “I’d just about as soon take a chance on 
that as to go on with this gang of thieves.” He re¬ 
membered that Darrow had said, at the swinging 
bridge, that he would get rid of him. He won¬ 
dered, “How will he get rid of me? And when?” 




CHAPTER XVI 

FLYING LEAD 

The sun was shining brightly when Nat and the 
men arrived at the cruisers’ camp on Fir Creek. 
For a moment the boy stood looking out over thickly 
timbered mountains and deep canyons. Every 
moment since daylight he had watched for a chance 
to escape, but Darrow had kept strict watch over 
him as they covered the last few miles. 

Nat glanced at the tent, which stood near a large 
pine tree. The cruisers had not changed it since 
they had made camp on the evening, six months be¬ 
fore, on which he had taken them to the woods. 
Near a giant cedar they had built a rough log-shack. 

“Get inside, there!” Darrow spoke roughly as 
he motioned toward the door of the hut. 

The other two cruisers had already gone in and 
were taking things from their pockets and piling 
them upon a heavy table that had been made from 
a hand-hewn slab of fir. A makeshift fireplace of 
stones had been built in the end of the shack. Three 
narrow shelves beside the fireplace held provisions, 

214 


FLYING LEAD 215 

and a sack of flour stood in the comer beneath them. 
There was one cot in the farther end of the shack. 
Nat walked across the room and sank down upon 
it. He supposed it was Darrow’s cot. The other 
cruisers, he thought, probably slept in the tents. 

As he sat down and looked at the things on the 
table his eyes narrowed and he held his lips firmly 
together. He could hardly overcome the impulse 
to gather them up and run, for he had recognized 
checks, watches, and trinkets which he knew be¬ 
longed to his friends in Camp Redwood. 

Just then Darrow came and placed the small 
chamois sack, containing Old Timer’s gold, with 
the rest of the plunder. With a sidelong glance at 
Nat, he then slowly took eight small tobacco sacks 
from his pockets and laid them beside the sack of 
gold. “How’s that for a haul?” he bragged. 
“Pretty good for one night’s work, eh?” The 
corners of his big loose mouth turned up, and the 
sharp black eyes under his bushy eyebrows shone as 
he untied the chamois sack and dumped out its con¬ 
tents. 

Carl, the tall cruiser, pursed his thin lips as he 
looked at the gold greedily. “About how much is all 
this, anyway,” he asked with a grin. 

“Oh, probably fifteen hundred or two thousand 
dollars.” Darrow held up a watch by its chain. 
“Look at this! Some timepiece, eh?” he laughed. 


216 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


Nat stared at Axel’s big watch, clenched his fists, 
and bit his lip to keep from shouting, “You thieves, 
you sneaks, to steal things from honest working¬ 
men! And poor Old Timer,” he thought, “worked 
hard in rain and snow to get that gold.” The boy 
was more worried about Old Timer’s gold and Axel’s 
watch than about his own savings in the tobacco 
sacks. He thought, “Oh, if I had a gun I’d soon 
get these things back for the men in Camp Red¬ 
wood! If I just had one of those little ‘32’ auto¬ 
matics !” For a moment he sat with his head bow ed 
in his hands. “The only thing I can do is to escape 
and get to Hector’s,” he decided. 

Harrow started to divide the plunder. As the 
three men stooped over the table Nat suddenly 
straightened up. “Now’s my chance!” he said to 
himself. “If I can just make it to the door, they’ll 
never catch me!” He was breathless as he meas¬ 
ured the distance with his eyes, and his heart 
thumped as he quietly inched himself forward un¬ 
til he was barely sitting on the edge of the cot. Sud¬ 
denly he ducked, then fairly flew across the room. 
But Carl had seen him, and pounced upon him just 
as he reached the door, dragging him back into the 
room. 

Darrow reached out and swung him down on 
the cot, growling, “Pretty smart, kid, but don’t try 
it again. You stay here till I tell you to move, or, by 


FLYING LEAD 217 

the Great Guns, I ’ll finish you!’ ’ He finished divid¬ 
ing the booty, and then started to build a fire in the 
fireplace. “Let’s eat,” he said. 

The other two men left the shack—to hide the 
gold and watches, Nat thought,—and returned to 
cook breakfast. Darrow sat sullenly at a small ta¬ 
ble near the door, with a watchful eye on the boy. 

At first, Nat refused to eat the bowl of oatmeal 
and the ham and eggs that the men offered him; but 
on second thought he decided that it would be bet¬ 
ter to eat, for if a chance of escape turned up he 
would be better able to meet it on a full stomach. 

All that day he restlessly paced to and fro across 
the cabin, always with an eye on the door. But 
only once did the three men all leave the shack. 
Then Nat peered out through a chink in the wall and 
could see them standing a few feet away. By plac¬ 
ing his ear against the tiny hole he could catch a few 
words. He knew that they were talking about him, 
and surmised that they were arguing about what 
to do with him. Darrow was angry and made 
threatening movements at the others, but they, in 
turn, sneered and answered sarcastically. 

Finally, they seemed to come to a decision, and 
came back into the cabin. 

After supper the boy was not allowed to go out¬ 
side, where the cruisers had built a roaring fire; but 
Darrow had left a log burning in the fireplace. 




218 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The sun had gone and Nat sat on the cot, with his 
elbows on his knees and his jaw in his hands, look¬ 
ing through the doorway at the deep canyons and the 
black forest which surrounded the camp. It was 
quite dark in the shack now, and the blazing log 
threw grotesque streaks of light across the floor. 
He listened to the rippling of Fir Creek as it hur¬ 
ried down the mountain. He thought it sounded 
like Little River, which ran through Camp Red¬ 
wood. He was homesick, even though he had lost 
his job in the woods, and Mrs. Higgins had said 
nothing about his going back to work in the cook¬ 
house. An overwhelming loneliness took posses¬ 
sion of him. He listened to the men outside, and 
wondered what they would do to him. He knew 
they would never let him go back to Camp Redwood. 
He had seen too much. 

Suddenly the talking ceased. Nat sat up and 
listened. He heard Darrow swear violently. 
Then the latter rushed into the shack and grabbed 
a small towel. Before the boy could cry out, he had 
wound it around his head and over his mouth, and 
had tied it tightly. 

Nat fought madly, but Darrow held him on the 
cot until Carl ran in, grabbed a piece of rope, tied 
his feet together, and bound his hands behind his 
back. Suddenly he ceased struggling, for he had 
heard Jim’s voice. He was saying, “Hullo, Old 


FLYING LEAD 219 

Man, where’d you come from? I thought you went 
to Eureka.” 

Nat’s body stiffened and a thrill shot through him 
when he heard Old Timer’s laugh. “Danged if a 
funny thing didn’t happen!” he answered. 

Darrow stepped to the door, while Carl roughly 
threw Nat on the floor at the end of the cot. Then 
Nat heard Darrow say, “Well, this is a surprise, 
Old Timer. You made a quick trip.” 

“Yup! Y’know I was jist tellin’ this fellow here 
that a funny thing happened.” 

“Yeh? What happened?” Nat heard Carl 
step to the door and ask the question. 

“Well, sir,” Old Timer went on, “y’ know I was 
takin’ a little stake to th’ bank in Eureka and stayed 
overnight in Camp Redwood.” 

“Well, what’s funny about that? You always 
stay in Redwood don’t you?” Darrow growled. 

“Yup. But danged if some bandits didn’t rob 
th’ camp an’ take my gold an’ a lot of other things.” 

“Hm! That’s too bad,” returned Darrow. 

“And you think that’s funny?” Carl asked. 

“We-el, not exactly, but th’ funny part is this: 
that kid, Nat, has scooted out!” 

“Maybe he cleaned the camp,” Darrow said. 

Nat held his breath and listened intently to hear 
the old man’s answer. He heard Old Timer laugh. 
“Mebbe,” he said. 


220 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

1 

Nat could not hear the men so plainly now. He 
guessed they had moved over to the camp fire, and 
wished that they had remained nearer. 

He heard Jim ask where Jubilo was, but he could 
not hear the old man’s answer. He lay there, hud¬ 
dled in the darkness, his face against the wall. Tears 
filled his eyes and he groaned aloud, but his friend 
did not hear him. He wondered why Old Timer 
had come to the cruisers’ camp. If the old man 
suspected that Nat was there, why didn’t he come 
into the cabin. The boy could hear them all talk¬ 
ing, but he could not understand what they were 
saying. If only Old Timer would stay all night! 
Then he heard some one approaching the shack. 
“We-el, I guess I better be gittin’ on. It’s a long 
ways home.” 

Nat tried to call out but could not make a sound. 
Twisting from side to side, he tried in vain to free 
himself. He heard Old Timer say, “S’long!” He 
listened intently, and could hear him shuffle away 
through the woods. 

Then the three men rushed into the shack. Dar- 
row gave an order. “Carl, follow that old bird. 
Something queer about him coming back so soon. 
And it’s pretty queer about him leaving his burro 
in Redwood. Sick, he said. Huh! Beat it, Carl, 
an’ don’t let him out of your sight till you’re sure 
he’s on the way to Trinity County!” 


FLYING LEAD 221 

Darrow turned to the other cruiser. “And you, 
Jim, get things ready for a quick getaway.” 

“Aw, there ain’t anything to get excited about. 
Y’ know very well Alex will put us wise if we’re sus¬ 
pected.” 

“I said get things ready! I didn’t say we’re go¬ 
ing! And bring me those records for Beckman! 
If Harrison should get hold of them!” Darrow 
swore under his breath. 

Nat started. With a flash he remembered the 
day on which he had taken the cruisers to the woods 
and had heard Darrow make the same remark. 

Jim left the shack for a moment and returned 
with a large envelope, which he handed to Darrow, 
who put it in an inner pocket of his mackinaw. He 
then went over to Nat, pulled him up on the cot, cut 
the ropes that bound his hands and feet, and untied 
the gag. 

Nat silently watched Jim filling knapsacks with 
food, while Darrow sorted letters and papers. He 
threw some in the fire and put others in his pockets. 

In an hour Carl returned. “Well, the old man’s 
gone. He sure led me a merry chase. He took 
a short cut through the ravine and started due east, 
so I guess he’s on his way home, all right.” He sat 
down beside Nat on the cot. “What’s the idea of 
the packed knapsacks?” 

“Nothin’ like bein’ ready to move an’ move quick 


222 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

when the time comes.” Darrow seemed to be wor¬ 
ried. “If Alex comes, we want to be ready to make 
a getaway.” 

“Aw, he’s losin’ his nerve,” Jim laughed; and 
Carl joined him, to be silenced by a growl from 
Darrow. 

“For my part, I think they’ll suspect the kid as 
long as they won’t be able to find him,” Carl ven¬ 
tured presently. He looked at Nat and laughed, 
“Eh, kid?” 

Nat was silent. 

For half an hour the men quarreled. Finally 
Darrow ordered the two out of the shack to their 
tent. He promised to keep watch at the door. 

Nat watched him pile logs upon the fire and then 
sit down on a bench at the table. The boy was very 
tired, and felt hopeless. He wished he could es¬ 
cape and go to Hector’s, but he knew it was im¬ 
possible as long as Darrow sat between him and the 
door. He became drowsy and slumped down on 
the cot, half sitting and half lying. He thought 
to himself, “I’ve got to stay awake. Maybe Dar¬ 
row will fall asleep, and I can get away! But—” 
his eyes closed “—I wonder who Alex is.” He 
dozed off. 

The two cruisers rushed into the shack, and in¬ 
stantly Nat was wide-awake. He felt rested and 
knew that he must have slept, for the fire had died 


FLYING LEAD 


223 


down. He heard Carl say, “Get goin’, Darrow, 
Alex is outside. He says Harrison’s wise but ain’t 
got the goods on us. We’re clearin’ out right now, 
to-night, before he can get an officer out here.” 

For a moment Nat was thrilled. Alex, the man 
with the worn sole, whom he had been hunting for 
weeks, was outside! He leaped to his feet and 
started to go out, but Harrow grabbed him. “Not 
so fast, kid,” he snapped, as he flung the boy back 
on the cot. “Watch him, Jim.” He hurried out, 
and Nat heard excited voices, but he could not tell 
what they were saying, nor could he hear the strang¬ 
er’s voice well enough to recognize it. 

In a moment Darrow returned. “Alex is gone, 
and we’re following right now,” he said swiftly. 

“Yeh! How about the kid?” Jim asked. 

“He’s goin’ with us. You can bet on that!” 

Nat gritted his teeth as he said, “Like fun I am! 
If I go you’ll have to carry me, for I won’t budge 
an inch from this shack to-night!” 

Darrow yanked him to his feet. “C’mon!” He 
shook the boy roughly. “We’re goin’, and we’re 
not goin’ to lose any time by arguing with you!” 

Nat was wide-awake and alert. His body stif¬ 
fened. “I didn’t come here willingly, Darrow.” 

“That’s true, but you’ll go with us willingly 
enough when you hear my plans,” the cruiser said, 
cajolingly. 


224 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“What do you mean?” Nat leaned forward hope¬ 
fully. 

“Just this. You want to go to school pretty had, 
don’t you? Well, we’ll take you to San Francisco 
and see that you get started right.” Darrow smiled, 
but there was a strange look in his shrewd black 
eyes. “C’mon, stand up! We’ve got to hurry, 
for it’ll be a long walk through Trinity County to a 
railroad.” 

“You mean that you’ll pay my way through 
school, and I won’t have to work?” 

“Exactly! C’mon, we can’t waste time.” 

“Yes, come on,” said Jim. He and Carl were 
standing near the door, with knapsacks over their 
shoulders. Carl started out. “I’m not waiting 
any longer,” he said, as he turned toward the trail, 
followed by Jim. 

The boy and Darrow were alone in the dimly lit 
shack. The flashlight, lying on the table, cut a pen¬ 
cil of light through the darkness toward the door. 
The logs in the fireplace had burned down to a bed 
of red embers and were casting a semicircle of eerie 
light out on the earthen floor. 

For a moment Nat stared at the cruiser, who 
was standing in the center of the shack, with his 
mackinaw on and his knapsack over one arm. 
Then, as the significance of his offer began to be 
understood, the boy sprang to his feet and pointed 


FLYING LEAD 225 

an accusing finger. “You think that I’d do that? 
Why, that’s bribery!” 

Without a word Darrow slowly advanced. 

Nat thought quickly: “I may be turning my hack 
on a chance, but I’d rather work as a flunky in the 
kitchen all my life than to accept such an offer!” 
He met the cruiser’s eyes squarely. “Darrow,” he 
said, “I’m not going!” 

Darrow advanced closer and said hotly, “Oh, 
yes, you are!” 

“You let me alone!” Nat’s fist shot out and 
struck Darrow in the stomach. Darrow swore 
violently, and, reaching out, slapped Nat on the 
cheek with so much force that he sent the boy reel¬ 
ing against the stone fireplace. 

For only an instant Nat stood there. Then, go¬ 
ing closer to Darrow, he said, “You leave me alone! 
Get me? I’m not going, and you can’t make me!” 
He was not tall enough to reach Darrow’s face, but 
he managed to strike another blow in the stomach 
that made the man groan. Then he ducked under 
his arm and sprang aside as the other struck out, 
hitting nothing. 

Darrow started around the table as Nat moved 
for the door, so that he stood between the boy and 
his avenue of escape. 

Nat thought swiftly, “If I don’t let him get hold 
of me I’ll be all right. I’ll just stay out of his way.” 


226 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

F 

He retreated to his place between the table and the 
fireplace. 

Darrow was furious. “You wildcat!” he thun¬ 
dered. “When I get hold of you you’ll know it.” 

Nat was a bit frightened, but his mouth was firm 
as he glanced at Darrow’s huge hairy wrists and 
powerful arms. He met his glaring eyes, thinking 
of the cougar which had followed them through the 
forest. The thought came swiftly, “He looks like 
a beast, a monster ready to spring!” He again 
started to run, but Darrow lunged forward and 
clutched his shoulder. Nat, feeling the strong fin¬ 
gers bite into his flesh, wrenched himself free, leav¬ 
ing part of his shirt in his assailant’s grasp. 

“You fool!” Darrow snarled. He sprang at Nat 
again, but the boy managed to keep the table be¬ 
tween them. 

Then Darrow’s loose mouth slowly spread into 
a grin, and his eyes narrowed as he grasped the edge 
of the heavy table and moved it slowly toward Nat. 
But the boy was alert. Reaching down to the 
fireplace, he grabbed the bar of iron that was used 
as a poker. Standing erect, with the poker behind 
him, he watched Darrow move the table, turn it 
at an angle, and begin to back him into the dark 
corner. 

“Guess you’ll come now and no foolin’!” The 
man glowered. 


FLYING LEAD 227 

Nat grasped the bar tightly. His face paled and 
he felt the perspiration standing on his forehead, 
for he knew that he would not have a chance if Dar- 
row forced him into the corner. 

“What you goin’ to do with the poker?” Darrow 
sneered. 

Nat was past words. He was frightened now, 
and trembling. But suddenly, with the swiftness 
of a shot, he swung the iron bar. 

Darrow dodged, but Nat struck him a blow that 
glanced off his skull. The man lunged forward, 
knocking the table over, and the bar from the boy’s 
hand. The flashlight rolled to the floor, but the 
coals in the fireplace gave out enough light for Nat 
to see him reach out wildly for the poker. The boy 
ran, but Darrow leaped after him, always between 
him and the door, and again tried to drive him into 
a corner. He advanced with the quickness of a 
cat, grabbed Nat’s arms, and twisted them behind 
him. 

Nat groaned with pain as the man dragged him 
across the shack and out into the darkness. 

Suddenly the crack of a six-shooter rang out! 
Darrow whirled, and a flash of fire streaked the 
blackness as he sent an answering shot into a thicket 
beside the shack. For a second, his hold on the boy 
loosened and Nat jerked himself free. At the same 
moment a familiar voice sounded near-by. 


228 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“Drop that boy an 5 reach fer th’ sky, y’ varmint! 
Danged if I don’t let th’ daylight into y’, y’ sneakin’ 
heathen!” But the cruiser was making his getaway. 
Lead flew all around him, as he dashed into the un¬ 
derbrush and was gone. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE SEARCH 

“Nat, me boy!” Old Timer ran to Nat and 
caught him in his arms. “T’was a good fight you 
put up, boy, t’was a good fight! I was hid in th’ 
thicket over there. Had a idee all th’ time that you 
was in that shack, but had to wait a chance to sur¬ 
prise ’im, an’ then,” the old prospector grinned, “I 
let ’im have it!” 

“Old Timer, I’m glad enough to see you!” Nat’s 
voice trembled and he could hardly talk. Tears 
ran down his cheeks, leaving shiny streaks through 
the dirt. He dabbed at them with his fists. 

“There, there, boy, what’s th’ matter? Yer all 
right. Brace up.” The old prospector drew Nat 
to him and patted him on the shoulder. 

Suddenly Nat straightened. “Let’s go after 
them! Quick, Old Timer, they can’t be very far 
away yet.” 

“That’s th’ stuff! That’s th’ way to talk! But 
we can’t follow ’em in th’ dark. It’ll soon be day¬ 
light. Another half-hour or so, an’ then, if y’ say 

229 


230 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

so, we’ll go! C’mon in th’ shack now an’ we’ll see 
if we can’t scare up somethin’ to eat. I’m ’bout 
starved.” 

In the shack they found bread, coffee, eggs, ham, 
and flour. While Old Timer straightened the 
benches and the table, Nat, with the aid of Dar- 
row’s flashlight, made flapjacks and fried ham and 
eggs. He excitedly told about his recent experi¬ 
ences, about the green light on the Lone Pine trail, 
and about Big Alex. “And,” he added, “I’ve got 
to find out who that man is. He’s been living right 
in Camp Redwood, and if we don’t capture him, or 
find out who he is, he’ll go right back and rob camps 
again. And we’ve got to get back your gold and the 
things they took from all the loggers!” 

The old man was solemn. “Yup! I’d like to 
have my gold all right, and danged if I ain’t goin’ 
to get it! We’ll trail ’em soon as it’s light ’nough. 
Y’ lost yer savin’s, too. An’ we’ll sure get ’em 
back!” 

When they sat down to the table Nat was so anx¬ 
ious to get started that he could hardly eat. “Did 
you have any idea that I was in here when you were 
here last night,” he asked, between mouthfuls. 

“O’ course I didn’t know y’ was, but I thought 
somethin’ was wrong. An’ when that fool Carl 
trailed me—guess he thought I didn’t know it— 
I knew somethin’ was wrong, an’ I had to keep on 


THE SEARCH 


231 


toward Trinity County so as he wouldn’t suspect 
anything. Crickety! I was afraid they’d hear 
Dick!” 

“Dick!” Nat was surprised. “Where is he?” 

“I left ’im down th’ trail a quarter-mile or so last 
night when I came up here.” 

“Oh, I hope he’s still there. We can get him and 
he’ll carry double, and we can make up for the time 
we’ll lose waiting for daylight.” 

It was just getting light when Nat and Old Timer 
found Darrow’s trail through a thicket of salmon- 
berry bushes and out to an open space beside Fir 
Creek, where the tracks led into the water. 

“Bet he ran down the middle of the creek so we 
couldn’t trail him.” Nat said. “But we can get Dick 
and do the same thing and pick up his trail where 
he left the water.” 

They easily found footprints where Carl and Jim 
had started eastward along the trail, and then the 
marks suddenly disappeared in a bank of rock and 
brush. They looked for footprints of the man whom 
the cruisers called Alex, but he had left no sign 
that he had been there. 

After hurriedly making up some ham sand¬ 
wiches to take with them, the old man and the boy 
walked back along the trail through the giant firs, 
and found Dick where he had been left. 

Nat was delighted to see the horse. “You’re all 


232 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

right, Dick, old boy,” he said feelingly. “If it 
hadn’t been for you, Old Timer wouldn’t have got 
here so soon.” 

But the time was not wasted in conversation, for 
the old man immediately mounted, and Nat climbed 
up behind him. They rode up the middle of Fir 
Creek, anxiously looking on both banks for signs 
to show where Darrow might have left the water. 

Finally, without any luck, they found themselves 
back in the cruisers’ camp. Then they rode on as 
fast as possible over the trail leading into Trinity 
County, about ten miles distant. 

It was a sultry day. Nat folded up his mackinaw 
and laid it across the saddle, unbuttoned his shirt at 
the neck, and rolled up his sleeves. The hot rays 
of the sun beat down upon the mountain. Not a 
leaf on the tall trees was moving. The grass in 
the open spaces was dry and yellow. Lizards scur¬ 
ried from the tops of the warm rocks where they had 
been sunning themselves, to hide in the crevices. 

A hawk circled over them and swooped almost to 
the ground, in search of prey. Buzzards soared 
and swept past so close that the travelers could hear 
the swishing of their wings. 

As they jogged on through hot avenues of man- 
zanita and pines, following cow trails, deer trails, 
or no trails at all, Nat wished for the cool and re¬ 
freshing shade of the redwoods. 


THE SEARCH 


233 


At eleven o’clock they stopped at a creek, to rest 
and to eat their lunch. Nat, sitting on a small sand¬ 
bar at the edge of the water, suddenly stared open- 
mouthed at an impression in the sand, just at the 
edge of the creek. Then he burst out excitedly, 
“There it is, Old Timer, there it is!” 

“What is?” The old man joined Nat, who had 
fallen to his knees and was examining the impres¬ 
sion. 

“The footprint, the very same one I saw on the 
Lone Pine trail! Look at that! I’d know it in a 
million. See, the worn place is a little larger. The 
man has been wearing it, and the wear would make 
it a little bigger. It’s the one, all right! There 
it is, as plain as day!” 

Old Timer carefully scrutinized the place indi¬ 
cated by Nat. 

“Can’t see a thing, boy. Guess you’re just ex¬ 
cited.” 

“No, I’m not. Not a bit of it! See here? Right 
under the water. Now look. The water has al¬ 
most washed away the marks, but there’s enough 
left for me to know what it is. Y’see the hole in 
the sole would leave that little raised place!” 

“Yer right, boy!” 

Nat leaped to his feet and searched for more tracks 
but found none. Then he crossed the stream. On 
the farther side he found where the dry grass had 


234 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

been mashed down. “See that?” he asked. “Do 
you know what caused it?” 

“ Yup! A man been sittin’ or lyin’ there. Crick - 
ety, boy! There’s been two o’ ’em! Lookie here!” 
He pointed to another depression in the grass. 

“Boy!” Nat exclaimed, as he dived under a thicket 
of willows. “Here is a find! Don’t touch it!” 
The two looked eagerly at the gray ashes of a ciga¬ 
rette which had burned down to the cork tip. 

“I’ll say that is somethin’! A man has been ’long 
here an’ not so turrible long ago, either, or th’ breeze 
would have spread that ash,” said Old Timer. 

Nat got to his feet. “We’re hot on the trail of 
Big Alex, the thief who was on the Lone Pine trail!” 
The boy did not waste time, but sprang into action. 
“C’mon, we’ve got to get ’im, for his capture might 
mean Darrow’s capture, and we got to get Darrow 
to see what those records are that he didn’t want Har¬ 
rison to see! And I’d sure like to know about that 
green light, and a lot of other things. We got to 
get your gold. C’mon!” 

He was already back on the other side of the 
stream, running to the horse. 

The old man was soon beside him. “An’ y’ still 
want t’ go after ’em?” he asked seriously. 

Nat exclaimed in surprise, “You bet I do!” 

“Y’ realize they’re desperadoes and they’re 
armed?” 



There it is, Old Timer, There it is!” -Page 233 















THE SEARCH 23S 

“Sure!” 

“An’ y’ ain’t got a gun?” 

Nat shook his head. “But you got a six-shooter, 
and I know you’re a good shot.” 

“Y’ better take th’ gun boy. I can look out fer 
myself.” The old man drew the gun so quickly 
that Nat hardly saw his hand move. 

“And leave you without one? Not on your life.” 

Old Timer solemnly put the gun back in his 
pocket, saying, “I think we’d better walk an’ lead 
Dick from now on, so we can keep on their trail 
easier.” 

“Yes! We got to walk now,” Nat assented. 

The two started across the stream with Nat lead¬ 
ing, the horse following behind. At the crest of a 
ridge they stopped to look around, for they had lost 
the trail. In back of them were mountains, cov¬ 
ered with forests of pine and small fir trees, giving 
way in places to scraggy oaks and large patches of 
manzanita. Below were chaparrals and patches 
of dry grass, stretching down to the willows and 
thickets of fir that bordered the stream where they 
had found the footprints. 

“Hm!” Nat walked around under the scraggy 
oaks. “We got to find their trail again. No telling 
which way they went from here. Just which way 
would be Trinity County, Old Timer? You know, 
Darrow mentioned Trinity County and a railroad.” 


236 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

The old man motioned due east. “Right over 
them mountains is th’ Trinity River an’ Trinity 
County. I figger this way: ’Twasn’t much chance 
of findin’ ’em anywheres in this part of th’ country 
we’ve jist come over, fer they’d have walked this 
fur, ’cause they had sech a good start. I know ev’ry 
step of these here hills an’ I know what I’m talkin’ 
’bout. But from here on, look out!” He stroked 
his long gray beard, and a shrewd look came into his 
eyes. “O’ course they’d pick th’ shortest ways to 
a railroad an’ that’d be this way. They prob’ly 
figger’d that out when they planned th’ robbery, an’ 
they prob’ly figger’d that by th’ time th’ robbery was 
found out an’ if they was suspected an’ Harrison 
notified th’ sheriff an’ if a posse was sent out, why, 
they’d be so fur away from here that they’d never git 
caught. Over them ridges, yonder, to th’ south, 
is Blue Canyon, an’ th’ walls is purty near straight 
up from th’ river. They could climb down into that 
canyon but they’d haf to go clean through it to th’ 
south end to git out. That’s a good place fer des¬ 
peradoes to hide. In th’ early days many a outlaw 
stayed in there, an’, by crickety, many a outlaw got 
caught in there, too! There’s tunnels an’ caves in 
th’ walls of th’ canyon an’ brush. Th’ more I think 
o’ it, th’ more I think they might lay low in there till 
they think th’ robbery has blowed over, an’ then 
strike out fer Mexico or Canada.” 


THE SEARCH 


237 


Nat looked disappointed. “But we’re not going 
back. You’re not giving up? We can’t let them 
get away!” 

Old Timer chuckled. “Nope, we ain’t agoin’t’ 
give up after we come this fur. We’ll look aroun’ 
fer more tracks. I’ll look aroun’ over in th’ oaks 
an’ you look down through th’ manzanita.” 

Nat walked a few paces across an open space. 
Soon he darted back to the old man. “I’ve found 
’em again! Come quick!” 

At the same moment Old Timer said in a low 
whisper, “I got ’em too, by dang! They’re headed 
north!” 

“No, sir! They’re headed south!” Nat ex¬ 
claimed. 

“Come ’ere, boy, an’ cast yer eyes over these fresh 
tracks. The}^ didn’t even try to cover their trail 
here. A blind man could see that!” 

Under the small scraggy oaks a half-dozen tracks 
could easily be seen. “See here?” Old Timer spat 
brown tobacco juice into a pile of rocks. “One of 
’em fellers had smaller shoes than t’other.” 

“That must’ve been Carl and Jim! I’ll bet it 
was! They’re sure headed up that way, but now 
lookit down here!” 

They walked through the oaks to a clump of 
manzanita, where Nat showed the old man distinct 
tracks made by two men. “See here? This is the 


238 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

track of Big Alex!” Nat exclaimed. “And I’ll bet 
a million Darrow is with him. I’ll go after them! 
You follow the other tracks.” 

“But you got no gun, boy.” 

“I won’t let them see me. I’ll follow their trail 
and see which way they’re going; then I’ll come 
back here and meet you. In the meantime, you can 
follow the other trail. Is it a go?” The boy looked 
expectantly at the old man. 

“Yup. It’s the only way,” Old Timer agreed. 

“We’ll have to leave Dick here. It’s the only 
thing to do. I’ll tie him to one of these small oaks.” 
Nat walked over to Dick, patted the horse, and 
talked to him. “Don’t worry, Dick. I’ll be back 
pretty soon. You stay right here, old boy.” 

“Nat, don’t foller ’em too fur. Y’ might get lost,” 
cautioned Old Timer. “ ’Bout three mile to th’ 
south o’ Blue Canyon is a leetle store, right along¬ 
side th’ highway. Ben Howe is th’ owner o’ th’ 
store an’ he’s a deputy sheriff. Don’t go past that 
highway, but if y’ stay on their trail that fur, come 
on back an’ we’ll both go down an’ see Ben an’ then 
go on into Blue Canyon. Y’ understand?” 

Nat nodded, and the old man started away. 

The boy hurried through the oaks and glided into 
the thicket of manzanita, with his sharp eyes on the 
trail of the bandits. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE BLAZING FOREST 

Nat crept down through dense thickets of man- 
zanita and scraggly oaks, until he lost the trail about 
a mile up the stream. He glided along on the bank, 
looking sharply for a bit of crushed moss or grass 
where a man might have stepped, a burnt match, 
a cigarette butt, or newly fallen leaves that might 
have been broken off by a man forcing his way 
through entanglements. 

For an hour he hunted without finding anything. 
He decided to climb to the crest of the ridge on the 
opposite side. He crossed over and started up the 
steep bank. When about halfway up, he noticed 
that an eerie yellowish light shone against the bank. 
Suddenly he became rigid, as he sniffed the air. He 
held his breath for an instant. Then, in a fright¬ 
ened voice, he said aloud, “That’s fire!” 

He ran out to an open space and saw clouds of 
thick, yellowish smoke rising over the opposite moun¬ 
tain, where he had left his horse. The terrible 
realization that he had tied Dick there swept over 
him. 


239 


240 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Old Timer!” he called, as he ran wildly down 
the steep ridge. He sickened at the thought that 
his friend might be caught in the forest. 

A quarter of a mile downstream he came to an 
opening between willow thickets and dashed across 
it, only to run into thickets of chaparral. He was 
breathing in gasps. His lungs ached, but he ran as 
fast as he could. He now heard a steady roar, and 
thought, “It’s the wind!” Then he realized that it 
was the fire. It was the roar of giant flames sweep¬ 
ing through the forest. 

A cloud of smoke enveloped him. He coughed 
spasmodically and drew his arms across his smart¬ 
ing eyes. He knew what that meant. The wind 
was coming up and soon the whole country would 
be on fire. He staggered out to a rise, looked up, 
and saw the tops of the clumps of oaks, not far away. 
It gave him new energy and hope. He bounded 
on. 

At his right, new flames broke out in the thickets 
through which he and the horse would have to pass! 
He ran swiftly toward the oaks. And then he saw 
Dick! The horse was wild. He was rearing and 
pulling in an attempt to loosen the rope. IN' at 
pulled his knife from his pocket and opened it as 
he ran. “Dick! I’m coming, I’m here! Dick! 
Good old Dick!” 

The horse was plunging wildly. Nat had to leap 


THE BLAZING FOREST 241 

for the bridle to bring him down so that he could 
mount. He fairly flew into the saddle, and, with 
the open knife, slashed the rope. The horse plunged 
and was off like the wind, thundering down through 
aisles of burning brush, and crashing through the 
chaparral. 

Nat lay low, clinging desperately to the horn of 
the saddle and to the horse’s mane. “We’ve got 
to find Old Timer,” he thought, as he tried to turn 
Dick in the direction the old man had taken. But 
the animal raced on and on. It raced down to the 
stream, splashed into the water, and headed up¬ 
stream. Nat clung like a burr, never raising his 
head lest he be caught by overhanging limbs and 
snags. Dick plunged out on the bank and gal¬ 
loped into a forest of tall pines. 

At last Nat managed to turn the horse in the di¬ 
rection which his friend had taken. His heart was 
filled with fear, though he knew that the old man 
was a pioneer and had fought scores of fires. 

He felt that he had ridden miles, when finally the 
horse came out upon a highway and stopped. 

Nat heard some one approaching on horseback. 
Soon he was able to recognize the rider as a forest 
ranger. 

“Hello, there. Are you Nat?” the ranger 
shouted, pulling up beside Dick. “I’m looking for 
you. Old Timer told—” 


242 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Is Old Timer safe?” Nat leaned forward 
eagerly. 

“You bet! But he was awful worried about you, 
and came to Camp Carlson to get out a searching 
party. He’s coming along in a truck with some fire¬ 
fighters;—here they come now!” 

Nat turned and saw two large trucks with men in 
them. A third truck full of fire-hose, gunny sacks, 
shovels, and axes followed closely. A broad grin 
spread over his face when he saw Old Timer beside 
the driver of the first truck. 

“Nat, me boy!” the old man shouted, as he leaped 
to his feet when the truck stopped near the horses. 
“Danged if y’ ain’t a sight fer these old eyes. 
Thought maybe y’ got mixed up in th’ fire!” 

“No,” Nat could laugh now, “but I thought maybe 
you were lost.” 

The old man laughed loudly. “Nope, I’m still 
here.” 

The ranger spoke up. “Now that the boy is here, 
I’d like to have you and the ten men who were going 
to search for him help fight the fire, Old Timer. 
What do you say?” 

“Sure!” the old man exclaimed. “Never failed 
y’ yet, did I, Tom?” 

“That’s right. You’re always on the job. How 
about the boy?” 

“Let Nat speak fer himself.” 


THE BLAZING FOREST 243 

“Yes.” Nat spoke emphatically. “But I can’t 
take Dick along.” 

“We’ll manage that, all right,” said the ranger. 
“Just tie him to one of those trees till I come back, 
which will be in a half-hour or so. Then I’ll take 
him down to my cabin. He’ll be safe there.” 

Nat agreed. He knew that the horse would be 

safe this time, for all the men would be working 

» 

between this place and the fire. After tying him, 
he climbed into the truck beside Old Timer. Tom 
gave the signal to start, and turned his horse off the 
road onto a trail which led through the timber. The 
three trucks started on. 

Old Timer was anxious to know how Nat and Dick 
escaped the terrible fire. After the boy had re¬ 
lated his adventure, the old man told how he had 
followed the trail of the two bandits to within a quar¬ 
ter of a mile of Camp Carlson, a lumber camp, and 
had decided to ask there if anyone had seen strange 
men. As he arrived at the camp, Tom, the ranger, 
received a telephone message about the fire from a 
lookout station on the top of one of the highest peaks. 
The old man explained how worried he had been 
about the boy, and that he picked ten men to help 
search along the line of the fire. The other men 
were preparing to fight the fire, so Old Timer and the 
searchers started with them in the truck. 

For a few minutes Nat was quiet. He looked 


244 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

out over the tree tops and saw great billows of yel¬ 
low smoke rolling up. 

“Pm afraid we’ve lost track of the bandits,” he 
said to Old Timer. “The fire will wipe out all 
traces of them.” 

“Nope, I think yer wrong,” the old man said. 
“It’ll wipe out th’ tracks, all right, but I think we’ll 
git two of ’em yet. Remember what I tole y’ about 
Blue Canyon?” 

Nat nodded. 

“We-el, it’s down to th’ south, ’bout eight mile, 
an’ th’ fire prob’ly won’t burn down that fur ’cause 
it’s cornin’ this direction. To-morrow mornin’, 
bright an’ early, you an’ me will strike out fer th’ 
Blue Canyon country.” 

It was mid-afternoon when the party arrived at 
the place where it was to leave the trucks. Nat and 
Old Timer were the first ones to grab shovels and 
axes. 

Through the pines they could now see the blaze 
of burning trees and brush, a mile distant. The 
low, rolling hills between the edge of the forest, 
where the boy stood, and the main wall of fire were 
dotted with new flares of burning brush. 

Tom ordered the men to start a fire trail a quarter 
of a mile from the edge of the forest. Two other 
rangers led the way through the brush to the place 
where they were to start the trail. “She’s headed 


THE BLAZING FOREST 245 

this way, men,” one of them exclaimed. “We’ll 
have to work fast. Clear a trail about fifteen feet 
wide. Half of you work down toward that canyon 
the other side of the ridge and the rest of you over 
this way toward the creek.” 

At once all went to work cutting brush, and fell¬ 
ing and dragging trees to the side of the trail nearer 
the fire. The boy and the old man worked side 
by side. One of the rangers stepped up and said, 
“We’ll have good luck if the wind doesn’t come up.” 

In some places there was little brush, and after 
an hour had passed they had made great progress. 
The ranger’s idea, Nat knew, was to keep the fire 
out of the dense forest behind them. “If the trail 
we are clearing is wide enough, the fire will stop 
when it burns up to it,” he thought. Pausing a 
moment, he looked at the blazing brush. The fire 
was coming toward them rapidly, and the smoke was 
stifling. Ashes and sparks fell around the men, 
who had now worked up to the creek. Nat wetted 
a gunny sack and ran about trying to extinguish the 
sparks, but thej^ soon came in such numbers that it 
was impossible to put them all out. Soon all the 
men had to throw aside their axes and shovels and 
work with him. 

As far as Nat could see, to his right and to his 
left, the men were working frantically as they re¬ 
treated before the advancing irregular wall of fire. 


246 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

He was very tired, but he continued to work with all 
his strength. 

Steadily the flames sent the men farther back from 
the trail. With their gunny sacks they beat the 
sparks, burning twigs, and leaves that fell between 
the fire trail and the forest. 

Tom came up and said to Nat, “I’ve fed your 
horse and he’s safe at my cabin.” 

“Thanks,” Nat said gratefully, and the ranger 
turned to Old Timer. “We’ve brought provisions. 
You can build a fire down by the road and eat.” 

“All right! C’mon, Nat.” And the two, tired 
and hungry, started back through the forest. 


CHAPTER XIX 


NAT FIGHTS FIRE 

When they arrived at the road where the trucks 
were waiting they found that the drivers had already 
unloaded bread, canned meat, sardines, doughnuts, 
and pies. 

Old Timer built a fire in a safe place and made 
coffee, while Xat made sandwiches. As the men 
straggled in, three or four at a time, Nat and Old 
Timer gave them food. After all had eaten, they 
went back to work. 

Tom said to Old Timer, “You take as many of the 
men as you need and start a trail along the ridge, 
this side of Brown’s ranch. There’s a new outbreak 
in the pine forest and the wind’s blowing this way. 
And you,” he wheeled his horse and spoke to an¬ 
other, “take twenty men and—” Nat didn’t wait 
to hear more but followed Old Timer as he went 
along the line of men, hurriedly picking out his help¬ 
ers and ordering them to take their tools and to 
follow. 

Arriving at the crest of a ridge, the men fell to 

247 



248 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

work, chopping trees, clearing brush, and making a 
clean trail fifteen feet wide, just as they had done 
a few hours before. 

Nat worked like a man, only occasionally stop¬ 
ping to look at the smoke rising from the fire but 
two miles distant, where Tom and dozens of men 
were clearing another fire trail. 

The wind increased. Old Timer was worried. 
“I don’t like that wind at all. Th’ fire’ll jump the 
trail that Tom an’ his men are makin’ if it keeps up!” 

He was right. The fire did jump the trail. Tom 
was driven back, and, with his men, joined the others. 
This made the line of fighters a half-mile long. 

“She’s sure cornin’ fast,” Old Timer shouted to 
Nat. “I’m afraid it’ll wipe out Brown’s ranch an’ 
Carlson’s Lumber Camp and go clean to the Trin¬ 
ity River. Tom sent Brown and his son home to 
git all th’ livestock off’n th’ place.” 

As the excitement settled down into terribly hard 
and dangerous work Nat began to feel nauseated. 
His face burned and his throat was parched from 
breathing the hot air. His hands were blistered 
from the axe and his eyes felt as though they were 
full of sand. 

The heat was so intense, as the fire came still 
closer, that the men staggered, almost exhausted, 
as they worked to make the trail wider so that the 
flames could not jump across. 


NAT FIGHTS FIRE 249 

Old Timer dared not subject them longer to such 
danger. He ran along the line, shouting, “Run 
fer your lives! Run fer Brown’s Ranch!” 

The men lost no time in obeying the order. As 
all ran to the ridge opposite, Nat glanced back to see 
long tongues of fire dart across the trail that he had 
worked so hard to help clear. 

At Brown’s ranch three auto trucks had been 
filled with household goods. A number of women 
and children were in the trucks, also. Just as Nat 
and Old Timer came upon them one of the drivers 
called, “Here, Old Timer, you and the boy ride with 
me.” 

They accepted the invitation, and soon the trucks 
started away, leaving a half-dozen men who were 
going to make a desperate effort to save the house by 
keeping the rear wall wet. They had no hopes of 
saving the stable and the barn, which were at the 
edge of the forest. 

“Where you goin’?” Old Timer asked the driver. 

“Lane’s meadow. The women and children’ll be 
safe there. Even if th’ fire burns through Carlson’s 
Camp, it can’t reach ’em there.” 

“Yup, that’s right.” 

The truck started down a road, crossed a creek 
in the bottom of a ravine, and soon came out upon a 
mile-long green meadow, stopping near the bank 
of the Trinity River. 


250 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“We’ll help ’em unload, Nat, fer they’ll need th’ 
trucks at Carlson’s,” said Old Timer. Nat nodded 
and went to work with a will. 

It was dark when he and the old man went up 
the hill to the ranger’s cabin. After taking Dick 
down to Lane’s meadow, where he would be safe if 
the fire should burn the lumber camp, they hurried 
along the ridge to Carlson’s. There they found 
several hundred men swarming around the cabins, 
gathering up their belongings and getting ready to 
leave, for they had almost given up hope of saving 
the camp. Most of them had been fighting the fire 
all afternoon, just as Nat and Old Timer had done. 

Looking across the ravine, Nat saw that Brown’s 
barn, stable, and house were in flames, and that the 
fire had swept down almost to the creek. 

Old Timer went into the camp store, but Nat stood 
on the porch to look around. The whole surround¬ 
ing country was illuminated by a reddish light from 
the fire. At first glance, Camp Carlson recalled 
Camp Bedwood to the boy’s mind. To his right 
stood the long unpainted cook-house, with rows of 
cabins and several cottages behind it. But, unlike 
Camp Redwood, this camp had been built on a ridge, 
and many small cabins perched on the bank above a 
scraggly forest of pines and oaks. Beyond the cot¬ 
tages he saw thousands of peeled logs ready to be 
hauled away. 


NAT FIGHTS FIRE 251 

Old Timer came out on the porch. “Here, Nat. 
I bought a leetle j oolery fer y\ I got a idee y’ll need 
it to-morrow,” he grinned. 

“Oh, boy!” Nat was surprised as the old man 
handed him a brand new .32-calibre automatic. 
“That’s a beauty! I’ve wanted one of those for a 
long time.” He looked it over carefully. “This 
sure is a gem!” 

“Put it in your pocket, boy. An’ here’s a hand¬ 
ful of shells. Put ’em in yer other pocket.” 

Nat grinned as he slipped the gun into his hip 
pocket. “Thanks an awful lot, Old Timer.” 

Tom swung around the corner of the store with 
a dozen men, carrying reels of hose. “Old Timer,” 
he said, “we’ve got to save this camp. Will you 
see that these men string out the hose? I’ve got 
to get back on the ridge. We got a chance of check¬ 
ing the fire out there. If we save this camp, we’ll 
save all the felled timber.” 

Old Timer ordered one of the men to fasten the 
hose to the hydrant beside the store and to unreel 
it to the cabins on the cliff above. “And you other 
men,” he said, “hurry and string yer hose,—one from 
th’ cook-house hydrant and th’ other from that at 
the lower end of camp.” 

“Anything I can do?” Nat asked. “I’d like to 
help!” 

“Well, we’re jist goin’ to play th’ water on these 


252 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

cabins nearest th’ fire. There’s no puttin’ it out 
now b’fore it gets here. We can save th’ camp 
if these is saved, but if these catch, it’s th’ end of th’ 
cook-house, store, an’ everything, an’ it’ll take in th’ 
felled timber clean down to th’ other side of th’ 
mountain. You take that hose there at th’ end 
cabin an’ play th’ water back an’ forth along th’ 
wall. Soak it good, boy.” 

The steady roar of the fire grew louder. The 
flames leaped down into the ravine and across the 
creek, and jumped from tree to tree. “In a few 
minutes it’ll be right here,” Nat thought, fearfully. 
The flames attacked the pitchy trees, and clouds of 
black smoke rolled up over the camp. The heat 
was terrific, for the forest right below had become 
a red-hot furnace, a thing of torture. 

“If it reaches here, we’ll never save the camp, 
and there’s no telling where the fire’ll stop.” Nat 
sickened at the thought. The water shot from the 
nozzle he was holding and beat against the cabin, 
sending back a spray that soaked him to the skin. 

A few minutes later the ranger looked out over 
the ridge, where the men were still working furi¬ 
ously with wet sacks, smouldering new outbreaks 
in the sparsely growing brush and timber. “I be¬ 
lieve they’ll check it out there. Not much there 
to burn. Brush, a few scrawny pines, and scrub 
oak. And oak burns slow.” 


NAT FIGHTS FIRE 253 

One of the other rangers came up. “I believe 
it’s under control. If these cabins had caught, we’d 
never have been able to check the fire. It would 
have wiped out this camp and got into the felled 
timber on the other side of the mountain.” 

“Yes, then it would have been impossible to save 
the rest of the camp. Well, it’s under control now,” 
said the ranger. 

“Whew! I’m sure all in.” Tom drew a long 
breath as he wiped the perspiration from his face. 
“What d’you say to going down to the cabin, wash¬ 
ing up, and getting supper? How my face burns! 
And boy, we’ll go to bed early!” 

“Yup! Guess they’ll be no objections!” Old 
Timer and Nat followed the ranger down the trail 
toward the cabin. “I’ll go get Dick. I left him 
down by the river,” Nat said. 

He found Dick where he had left him beside one 
of the trucks. He rode him back to the ranger’s 
cabin, led him to a little shack, took off his bridle, 
and unsaddled him. 

Tom was making coffee and preparing something 
to eat. Old Timer was taking off his boots. 

“I’ll say I’m tired. This bed sure looks good to 
me,” Nat said, as he sank down on a cot. Glanc¬ 
ing into another room he could see a white iron bed 
with a clean spread and two big white pillows. 
“I’ll sleep here on the cot and Old Timer can sleep 


254 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


in the bed with Tom,” he thought to himself. He 
noticed a telephone on the wall and said aloud, “I 
think we ought to telephone to Mr. Harrison and 
let him know where we are.” 

“Yup,” Old Timer agreed, “but we can’t git ’im 
from here. We’ll go up to Carlson’s Camp in th’ 
mornin’ an’ phone.” 


CHAPTER XX 


NAT UNDER FIRE 

“Wickety-wick-wick-wick.” 

A noisy and friendly flicker hopped from branch 
to branch in a tree outside the window of the kitchen 
where Nat was sleeping, and then down to the 
ground, where an ant-hill furnished the nicest kind 
of breakfast food. He busily licked the little crea¬ 
tures out of the hill with his long sticky tongue until 
he was satisfied, then flew to the window-sill, cocked 
his eye, and sang something that sounded like: 

“Wick up, wake up, 

Yarrup, Yarrup! 

Wick up, wake up, 

Get up, you’re up!” 

“All right, Mr. Yellow-hammer Flicker, I’m 
getting up now, so stop your scolding. I’m not a 
whistlepunk to-day, so there!” Nat jumped out of 
bed, and away flew the flicker with a loud, “Yar¬ 
rup, yarrup, yarrup!” 

“Are you up, Nat?” called Old Timer from the 
bedroom. 


255 


256 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Yes, I’m up now. I’d like to go to the river 
and take a swim. Could I?” 

“Sure! We’ll go up th’ south fork. It’s jist 
up th’ river half a mile. There’s a deep hole there. 
We’ll go on Dick.” 

“Oh, boy, that’ll be fine and dandy. I’ll be right 
there.” 

The sun was coming up when Nat went to the 
shed to feed his horse. 

Old Timer hurriedly dressed and followed. 
When the horse had finished munching his hay Nat 
swung the saddle into place. Then they mounted 
and Dick started up the trail with them. 

At the river, Nat fairly tore off his clothes, so 
impatient was he to get into the smooth, green 
water. 

“Here’s th’ best place to swim,” said Old Timer. 
“Nice deep hole with a sandy bottom; not many 
rocks, either.” 

Nat ran out on a windfall lying over the pool, 
steadied himself for an instant, and then dove head¬ 
first to the bottom of the hole, coming out of the 
water at the other side. 

“Yer a regular fish, Nat. That was as purty 
a dive as I ever did see,” exclaimed Old Timer. 

Nat swam across the narrow river several times. 
Then he lay down to sun himself on a sand-bar. 

For a few minutes he lay there quietly. Then 


NAT UNDER FIRE 257 

he jumped up, dived into the water, swam back to 
where he had left his clothes, and dressed. Then 
he said, “C’mon, Old Timer, we can’t lose any more 
time if we’re going down to Blue Canyon to hunt 
for Darrow and Big Alex.” 

Tom had breakfast waiting for them. After 
eating they went outside so that Nat might try out 
his new gun. 

Old Timer picked up a small tin can, stepped off 
twenty yards, and set it on a stump. The boy, hold¬ 
ing the automatic at arm’s length, aimed and fired 
three times. The first two shots missed, but the 
third sent the can flying. 

Tom was astonished. “Nat, you sure are a crack 
shot!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you learn to do 
that?” 

“Oh, I practice target-shooting a lot. Mr. Hig¬ 
gins thinks it’s all right for a boy to have a gun if 
he’s careful and learns how to handle it.” He 
snapped on the safety catch and put the gun in his 
pocket. “I don’t think we’d better wait till the 
store opens, to telephone to Camp Redwood. 
Maybe Tom could telephone for us later,” he said. 

“Sure.” Tom took a pencil and pad from his 
shirt pocket. “Who shall I call, and what’s the 
message? I’ll be glad to do that for you.” 

Nat and Old Timer had told Tom, the night be¬ 
fore, about the robbery, and had revealed that they 


258 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

were hunting the bandits. They had inquired at 
Carlson’s Camp about any strangers, but no sus¬ 
picious-looking persons had been seen. 

Tom promised to tell Mr. Harrison that Nat was 
safe, and that he and Old Timer did not know how 
soon they would return to Camp Redwood. 

After bidding Tom good-bye, the two mounted 
Dick and resumed their journey. Camp Carlson 
was just waking up when they passed through. 
Several men were on guard, watching for new flares 
of fire. Ugly black skeletons of trees and smok¬ 
ing stumps were all that was left of the beautiful 
forest below the camp. Clouds of thin smoke were 
rising from the mountains in the distance and drift¬ 
ing away. 

The travelers rode south along the crest of the 
ridge at the edge of the smouldering brush. Pres¬ 
ently an avalanche of ashes and rocks slid under 
Dick’s feet. When the horse had regained his 
footing, Nat and Old Timer decided to walk and 
to lead the animal. 

“You know,” Nat said, as he walked along be¬ 
side the old man, “Carl says that Plarrison’s wise. 
What do you suppose made them suspect the 
cruisers?” 

Old Timer shook his head. “Beats me. They 
didn’t suspect ’em before I left for Hector’s. Har¬ 
rison telephoned th’ sheriff. Maybe one of his 


NAT UNDER FIRE 259 

men went out to Camp Redwood and found a clue. 
That’s possible.” 

“And I’m still wondering what that green light 
on the Lone Pine trail was for, and what those pa¬ 
pers that Darrow didn’t want Harrison to see were 
all about.” 

“Beats me.” 

“And I’d sure like to know which one of the men 
in Camp Redwood was Big Alex.” 

The old man said nothing. 

“Say, do you think we got a chance at all to catch 
’em?” Nat asked. 

“Yup. But we can’t capture all four of ’em. 
That’s impossible, fer two went north an’ two—I 
got a idee they’re yer Big Alex an’ Darrow—went 
south. Y’ see they started southeast, an’ we wasn’t 
fur behind ’em when th’ fire started. They wouldn’t 
take chances on meetin’ any o’ th’ fire-fighters so 
’bout th’ only thing they could do was to turn south, 
away from th’ fire. See?” 

“Yes, and they’d travel at night and hide out in 
the daytime.” 

“An’ the best hideout place in th’ whole country 
is Blue Canyon!” 

Nat nodded, and fingered the new gun in his hip 
pocket. 

The travelers did not follow the highway for fear 
of being recognized if any of the bandits should see 



260 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

them. They sought instead a zigzag course across 
a level stretch, thickly timbered with pine. The 
floor of dry pine needles was soft and springy and 
their footfalls could not be heard, but Dick’s iron 
shoes made a soft beat. Occasionally dry twigs 
would snap under his weight. 

“We’d better climb up to the ridge, there, and 
look around,” Nat said, as they came to an open 
space. 

Old Timer nodded. “Yup, that’s th’ best thing 
to do. But we’ll have to be awful quiet an’ keep 
under cover of th’ trees an’ brush.” 

“If we could just find their trail again.” The 
boy shook his head gravely. “Just one footprint, a 
burnt match, or a cigarette—anything to tell us 
that they came this way.” He was quiet and 
thoughtful as they started up over a rise which led 
to the foot of the ridge. “I just can’t believe that 
they were so far ahead of us yesterday that the fire 
didn’t stop them. Of course, they could have 
headed north and not even tried to get to the railroad, 
but I don’t think so.” Nat spoke more to himself 
than to his companion. 

For an hour they labored up the mountain. It 
was hot and sultry. Nat’s face was red and burned 
from the terrible fire, and the perspiration that ran 
in little beads over his forehead and down his cheeks 
smarted uncomfortably. 



261 


NAT UNDER FIRE 

He had been intently searching for tracks, with 
only an occasional quick glance upward. When 
he came to a thicket of manzanita on a small level 
stretch at the crest of the ridge, he was struck 
speechless. He stood on the very edge of a sheer 
precipice that dropped almost perpendicularly to a 
mass of rock so far below that he felt as though he 
were standing on the edge of the world. It was 
the wildest country he had ever seen. Directly 
across the canyon the tree-choked gorges and bare 
cliffs rose to the ragged notches of the summit, 
sheering off southwardly into a wavy mountain 
range. To the north, a blue haze clung loosely to 
the crags that topped the red-streaked, sparsely 
timbered wall. 

“That’s an awful gorge,” Nat said in an awed 
tone. 

“Yup. That’s Blue Canyon.” The old man’s 
sharp eyes peered out through the manzanita bushes. 
“It’s pretty near impossible fer anybody to git out 
through th’ upper end. Y’ have to turn south an’ 
go down along th’ crick.” 

“It’s not much of a stream, is it? I can’t even 
see any water from here. But there’s a few little 
patches of green grass.” 

“There’s a spring there, but the river’s about all 
dried up now.” 

While they talked the two scanned the bottom and 


262 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

the walls of the canyon. After a minute’s rest they 
headed south, keeping to the brush and thickets of 
pine, carefully avoiding all open places. Nat led 
the way. Once in a while the horse would stop to 
nibble dry grass but Nat urged him on and promised 
him green grass as soon as they should arrive at the 
floor of the canyon. 

Two hours passed before they reached the last 
steep bank of rocks and red earth, at the foot of 
which was the dry bed of the river. Nat motioned 
for Old Timer to go ahead, while he waited to pat 
Dick on the neck. “It won’t be long now, boy, till 
you get water and good grass,” he said quietly. 
“Come on, follow me down this bank. Take it easy, 
an’ don’t use yourself up.” 

Nat was thirsty and tired. His shirt was wet 
with sweat and his heavy overalls were dusty and hot, 
but not for a moment did he forget that they were 
hunting the gang who had robbed Old Timer and 
his friends in Camp Redwood. Every clump of 
chaparral had dead branches that stuck out as sharp 
as thorns. Often they had to break through paths 
that were closed with brush and dead vines. Prog¬ 
ress was very slow. Suddenly Nat dropped to his 
knees to look at a small mud-caked rock. He 
motioned for Old Timer to come cautiously. 
“Lookit!” he whispered, as the old man dropped 
down beside him. “Some one stepped on that rock. 


NAT UNDER FIRE 263 

See here, the dry mud is all crumbled right on top. 
They’ve been here, sure as you’re livin’!” 

The old man nodded his head. “Yup! Some¬ 
body’s bin here. Might not be them. I reckoned 
they’d come down through th’ pass. This could be 
one o’ their tracks leavin’ th’ canyon. If it is, we’ll 
never catch ’em now. Anyway, they wouldn’t be 
likely to leave a track like this.” 

4 'They’re not going to leave any tracks at all, 
if they can help it. This was just an accident. 
They’ve been here. I feel it in my bones.” Nat 
was thrilled to think that at last he might have found 
their trail again. Tie and Old Timer quietly 
slipped back into the shelter of the manzanita bushes 
beside Dick. 

"But we don’t know whether they were going up 
into the canyon or coming out. Do you suppose we 
could find any tracks on the other bank?” Nat 
talked quickly, but very quietly. "I’ll scout around 
a little, while you and Dick wait here.” He darted 
across to the other bank, but he found nothing and 
soon rejoined the old man. 

"The thing to do,” continued Nat, "is to go on 
up to the spring. We might find them there, so 
we’ll sure have to be careful. It would be best to 
leave Dick here, but of course we can’t do that. He’s 
got to have water; and, besides, they might see him 
and make a getaway on him.” 


264 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“Yup. Dick goes along with us. But dang, 
his hoofs do make a noise.” The old man looked 
troubled as he fingered the six-shooter in his hip 
pocket. 

“I’ve got it!” Nat exclaimed. “I’ll go on ahead. 
Do you see that boulder jutting out over the bank 
up there a quarter of a mile?” 

“Yup. Th’ spring is right under it.” 

“Good! You watch that rock. I’ll wave once 
if I don’t see them, and twice if I do! You’ll have 
to watch close, for I’ll keep under that little pine.” 

Nat plunged beneath a scrub manzanita and 
crawled on his hands and knees under the thick 
bushes. Dry leaves covered the ground, but he 
scarcely made a rustle as he crept along. He ad¬ 
vanced slowly, stopping often to look for tracks, 
and keeping a watchful eye on the opposite bank. 
Finally he reached the end of the manzanita thicket ; 
then he kept close to the trunks of pines which grew 
along a low bluff. He walked to the edge of the 
bluff and could see that he was approaching two 
huge rocks, one on each side of the bed of the river, 
that reared themselves above a mass of smaller ones. 
For ten minutes the boy lay flat under a shrub, lis¬ 
tening intently, and scanning the walls and the bot¬ 
tom of the canyon as far as he could see. 

To the north he saw a deep narrow gorge dividing 
the wall of the canyon, where the rushing waters of 


NAT UNDER FIRE 265 

many storms had cut a channel. Far above was 
the crest of the ridge where he and Old Timer had 
stopped a few hours before. Along the river bed 
stagnant water lay in little pools between dry, mud- 
caked rocks. 

Suddenly Nat had a vague premonition—a sense 
of coming disaster. His hand went back to his hip 
pocket and he felt the automatic, which helped him to 
regain some assurance. lie crept back into the 
shelter of the pines and worked his way along the 
bluff to the huge rock from which he was to give the 
signal to Old Timer. For a few minutes he was 
very still, as he once more scanned the walls of the 
canyon. Then he looked back and raised his arm 
once. Soon he saw the old man, followed by the 
horse, emerge from the thicket. 

Nat started to slide down the bank. But he was 
only halfway down when the sharp crack of a six- 
shooter stunned him into immobility. For only a 
second he stared at the prostrate figure of the old 
man, who had suddenly dropped on the grass. He 
drew his gun and, with a rash impulse, started to 
scramble down the bank and across the canyon to 
aid him. But he saw Old Timer barely raise his 
right hand, in which a six-shooter glinted in the sun, 
and motion him to stay where he was. The boy 
was reassured when he saw him creep slowly through 
the grass to the base of the rock. 



266 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


Old Timer then acted quickly. Again he mo¬ 
tioned Nat to lie still. Then he rose to his knees 
and took off his black slouch hat. Picking up a 
small piece of wood, he hung the hat on the end of it. 
Nat lay close against the protecting cliff. He was 
anxious to join Old Timer, for he knew that at last 
they would have a battle with a bandit. And he 
hoped there were two bandits. “An old trick,” he 
thought, when he saw the old man cautiously move 
to the edge of the rock and stick out the hat, so that 
a part of it could be seen from the other side. 

Instantly a shot rang out, and immediately the 
canyon echoed with an answering shot from Old 
Timer. 

Nat watched the old man examine the hat; then, 
with a quick motion, he made the boy understand 
that the bandits were shooting from a position di¬ 
rectly in line with the open place between the two 
boulders. There was another shot from the bandits. 

“That’s a Luger. Sounds more powerful than 
a six-shooter. There’s two of ’em, all right! Boy! 
It must be Darrow and Big Alex!” The boy was 
tense as he thought, “At last I’m going to see the 
mysterious bandit!” 

With a glance at the old man, who was kneeling 
on one knee behind the protecting rock, intently 
waiting for a chance to fire, Nat slid down behind 
the pile of boulders at the edge of the channel. He 


NAT UNDER FIRE 267 

had a definite plan to join Old Timer and was thank¬ 
ful for the irregular line of boulders that crossed 
the river bed at an angle. Torrents of water had 
washed them down to form a low, overlapping wall. 

The boy lay flat on his stomach in the gravel and 
worked his way, a few inches at a time, across to 
the willows opposite. He was well aware of the 
danger from glancing bullets and he knew he would 
be directly in the line of fire from the bandits’ guns. 
And there was a chance that they could see him, as 
the boulders in places were less than two feet high. 
He knew that the men were desperate and would 
not hesitate to fire at him. “They’re trapped!” he 
said to himself. “They can’t climb the walls of the 
canyon and they can’t go through that gorge! 
This is the only way out, and if Old Timer can hold 
them there long enough we’ll have ’em!” He pulled 
himself slowly along. The sun beat down upon him 
relentlessly, while gnats and mosquitoes from the 
sluggish pools of water swarmed around him. 

When he was about a third of the way across, the 
crack of the Luger rang out again. Old Timer 
returned the fire. A bullet whined through the 
air and glanced off a rock a few feet in front of 
Nat. He lay like a lizard, flat in a niche of sand. 
He barely breathed. A gnat bit his scorched face, 
but he dared not move. Soon he decided to proceed, 
as the firing had ceased. 


268 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

He felt like shouting for joy when he safely 
reached the other side and worked his way into the 
thicket of willows, where Dick was munching the 
green grass. He was sure the bandits could not see 
him now, for the rock, at the base of which Old Timer 
was kneeling, reared its head above the willows and 
obstructed their view. He leaped to his feet and 
ran swiftly. Once he looked back and was glad 
to see that Dick was not following him. 

“We’ve got ’em!” he whispered excitedly, as he 
dropped beside Old Timer. 

“Not by a long shot, me boy!” The old man did 
not turn his eyes from a crevice in the rock through 
which he could look up the river. “That was pretty 
slick, the way y’ got over here, but y’ took an awful 
chance.” 

“And I’m going to take a bigger chance!” Nat 
spoke very low, close to the old man’s ear. “I’m 
going up over the ridge—this first little one—and 
work my way along the other side, farther up the 
canyon than the bandits, and then down into the 
canyon behind ’em. Boy, they’ll be surprised!” 

Old Timer shook his head warningly. “Y* can’t 
do it, Nat! They’d have y’ cornered. Y’ might 
slide down into th’ canyon, but y’ could never climb 
out; an’ if they decided to retreat, there y’d be— 
caught! An’ anyways, y’d be under fire from my 
gun.” 




NAT UNDER FIRE 269 

That s just it! You could hold ’em with the fire 
from your gun till I get up there.” 

The old man was doubtful. “They’re desper¬ 
ate men,” he said. 

“And I’m desperate, too! Old Timer — I am 
going!” 

Nat bounded to his feet and clambered up the 
bank behind the sheltering rock. He reached the 
top and hid behind a clump of manzanita as he 
looked around. A tributary of Blue Biver had cut 
a groove four or five feet deep that ran almost par¬ 
allel to the main river. Bending over, so that he 
could not be seen from the point where the bandits 
were, Nat ran up the dry bed of the tributary for a 
hundred yards. But from here to the top of a sec¬ 
ond ridge was an impenetrable mass of brush and 
rocks. He retraced his steps a few yards and, under 
cover of thickly growing chaparral, ran to the crest 
of the ridge. Gliding swiftly along, he was soon 
at least two hundred yards up the gorge above the 
bandits. He crawled out of the forest and found 
himself on the edge of a precipice, several hundred 
feet directly above the bed of Blue River. For an 
instant he felt dizzy, but he gained courage when 
he saw that the bed of the river was a mass of big 
and little boulders and slabs of black bedrock, dotted 
with pools of water. “If I can get down there,” he 
said to himself, “I’ve got a good chance to capture 


270 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

them. I’ve got to do it when they’re busy with Old 
Timer.” He looked down the canyon in the direc¬ 
tion of the bandits, but he saw no one. 

Then he heard a shot. 

“Old Timer’s six-shooter!” he thought. “Now’s 
my chance!” He scrambled over the edge of the 
precipice and landed six feet below on a shelf of 
rock. For a moment his eyes searched for a down¬ 
ward course. “I’m in here now, and there’s no go¬ 
ing back!” he said with finality. “Anyway,” he 
laughed to himself, “I wouldn’t go back if I could.” 

Picking his way down, he managed to reach a 
small ledge. Leaping across a crevice, he landed 
on another narrow shelf. For a second he swayed 
dizzily but did not lose his balance. Dropping to his 
hands and knees he crawled on down, holding to 
jagged rocks and vines. 

Soon he reached a shelf from which he could jump 
to a sand-bar below. He breathed easier as he 
crouched against a large boulder at the edge of the 
river bed. His eyes searched narrow sand-bars and 
boulders as far as he could see. 

The canyon echoed with a barrage of shots. 

Nat leaped to his feet, drew his gun, and was ready 
for action. He realized that if the bandits should 
retreat under Old Timer’s fire they would catch 
him. He disliked to think of what they would do to 
him. 


271 


NAT UNDER FIRE 

A crack from a six-shooter sounded loud and un¬ 
comfortably near. A shot from Old Timer’s gun 
struck a boulder not twelve feet away. The sharp 
crack of the bandit’s six-shooter and the louder crack 
of the Luger again echoed through the canyon. 

Old Timer answered with a barrage of shots that 
whistled past Nat. 

He went on. He knew that the bandits could 
not be more than twenty or thirty feet from him. 
He held his breath and listened. He heard voices! 
At the same instant he saw a mass of debris in the 
middle of the river bed, not twenty-five feet away, 
but, as it happened, small boulders hid most of it 
from his view. 

“They’re on this side of the jam!” His heart 
pounded against his ribs. “I’ll sneak up closer be¬ 
hind these rocks. I’ve got to surprise ’em.” 

He glided to the next big boulder, for he knew he 
could see the bandits from there. For a moment 
he stood with the gun in his hand, then slowly peered 
around a jagged corner of the rock. 

“Jiminy! Holy smoke ! 33 he breathed, as he 
jerked himself back. “It’s Dillon! Snappy Dil¬ 
lon! And Darrow!” His heart seemed to stop 
beating, then started again with a mad rush. He 
saw the two bandits kneeling against the brush jam 
which they were using as a rampart. Both men 
had their backs to him. 


272 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


Another shot rang out, but there was no answer¬ 
ing fire from Old Timer. 

Nat wondered. “Maybe he’s out of shells,” he 
thought, with a sickening feeling. 

The men stopped firing. Pie heard them talking 
in low tones. 

“Now’s my chance. I’ll take ’em by surprise.” 
With the gun in his hand covering the bandits, he 
stepped from behind the rock and said in a loud, 
steady voice, “Don’t move! Throw away your 
guns, and up with your hands!” 

Darrow dropped his gun in the sand at his feet, 
but Dillon flung his into the brush. Darrow then 
whirled, facing Nat. An amazed expression passed 
over his face. Then he grinned foolishly. “Well, 
if it ain’t th’ kid! Th’ kid! What do you know 
’bout that!” 

He quickly reached down for his gun. But Nat 
was quicker. He fired, and a puff of dry sand rose 
where the gun lay. 

“Leave it alone, Darrow,” he shouted. “I mean 
business! One more move from you and down you 
go!” 

The instant that Nat fired Dillon leaped around 
the end of the rampart, only to be stopped by Old 
Timer. “Not so fast, me fellar. Not so fast!” 
The old man’s hand was steady, and there was a 
twinkle in his eyes as he covered the bandits. 


NAT UNDER FIRE 273 

Dillon stepped back, and Darrow’s face turned 
white when he saw who it was. 

Old Timer stepped closer. “I’ve got ’em cov¬ 
ered, Nat; pick up their guns!” he said. 

The boy breathed more easily as he picked up 
Darrow’s six-shooter and the Luger which Dillon 
had flung into the brush. 


CHAPTER XXI 


HOME-COMING 

It was a strange procession that started down 
through Blue Canyon. Red-haired, square-jawed, 
aggressive Snappy Dillon and black-eyed, heavy- 
browed Darrow led the way, while Nat, with his 
automatic ready for any emergency, was at their 
heels. Old Timer followed close behind, his own 
six-shooter in his hand. Dillon’s Luger and Dar- 
row’s six-shooter were in his hip pocket. 

When they arrived at the spring in the willows 
Dick came trotting up. Nat covered the prisoners 
while Old Timer took the rope from the horse’s 
bridle, cut it in two pieces, and ordered the bandits 
to hold their arms out so that he might tie their wrists 
together. At first the prisoners refused, but a 
threatening motion of Nat’s automatic made them 
change their minds. 

The procession then started on. All were tired, 
and very quiet, and there was no conversation. 
When they arrived at an opening in the wall of the 
canyon, Nat asked Old Timer, “Do we have to take 

274 


HOME-COMING 275 

them clear back to Camp Carlson and leave them 
there?” 

“No, siree! Don’t you remember I tole y’ up in 
th’ oaks when we parted yesterday that Ben Howe 
keeps store up there on th’ highway?” 

Nat smiled. “That’s right. I do remember. 
Is that where we’re going now?” 

“Yup. It’s only a couple o’ miles, but pretty 
hard traveling.” 

After toiling up ravines and over ridges, the party 
came out on the highway directly across from Ben 
Howe’s store. 

Old Timer called, “Hello, Ben,” to a man who 
got up from a bench beside the door. 

“Well, Old Timer,” Howe said, with a surprised 
look at Darrow and Dillon, “what’s the idea? 
Where in thunderation did you pick up these fellers, 
and what you got ’em all tied up for?” 

The old man hurriedly told his friend his unusual 
experience, and Howe ordered the bandits inside. 
Nat followed and saw the deputy sheriff slip hand¬ 
cuffs upon them and order them to stand up while 
he searched them. 

“Hm! I guess this is some of your gold, Old 
Timer,” Howe said, as he took the chamois sack 
from Darrow’s pocket. 

“Yup,” Old Timer smiled. “I hope we git th’ 
rest o’ it. That’s Nat’s. Ain’t it, Nat?” he said, 


276 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

when the deputy took a tobacco sack full of green¬ 
backs from another pocket. 

“Yes,” Nat nodded solemly. After he had taken 
everything from the prisoners’ pockets Howe found 
a large envelope tucked away in Darrow’s mack¬ 
inaw, which was lying on the bench. 

Darrow objected. “That’s nothing!” he growled. 
“Just some private papers. I’ll keep them my¬ 
self.” 

Howe shook his head. “No, I’ll turn everything 
over to the sheriff.” He laid three watches, four 
tobacco sacks full of Nat’s savings, some of Old 
Timer’s gold, three of Shannon Lumber Company’s 
checks and a roll of greenbacks on the counter. 

Nat was glad that the deputy had found the en¬ 
velope, for it was the one that contained the papers 
that Darrow did not want Harrison to see. 

Howe turned to Old Timer. “I’ll telephone the 
sheriff in Eureka to come out; in the meantime, I’ll 
get something for you men to eat.” 

“By crickety,” Old Timer grinned, “I believe I 
am hungry. Plow about you, Nat?” 

Nat nodded vigorously. “I’ll tell the world I’m 
hungry. And I’ll be glad to help Mr. Howe fix 
something.” 

“All right, Nat.” Howe motioned for the old 
man to look after the prisoners, while he and Nat 
busied themselves in the kitchen. 


HOME-COMING 277 

A half-hour later Nat and Old Timer mounted 
Dick and started back to Camp Redwood. 

Nat was delighted at the idea of getting back to 
his cabin and to Micky and to his job as whistlepunk. 
He wondered whether Micky had missed him. As 
for Patsy and Peggy and the rest—well, strange 
as it might seem, he was so anxious to see them again 
that he felt he could hardly wait. And Old Timer 
was just as happy to think of getting back to Jubilo 
and his fiddle. 

In an hour they had passed around the burnt area, 
which was about five miles square. Nat was glad 
when they came to the cedars. But he was very 
sober when they passed the cruisers’ camp and 
started down the mountain into the redwoods. He 
thought of the night on which the cruisers had tried 
to make him go away with them. 

It was almost dark when they arrived at Hector’s. 
Nat quickly slid from Dick’s back and ran into the 
cabin, shouting, “Hey, Hector, here we are!” 

Old Timer dismounted and followed him in, but 
Hector was not there. The boy ran out again, call¬ 
ing loudly, “Hector! Here we are!” Then he saw 
the old hermit coming and ran across the pasture to 
meet him. Hector did not try to hide his emotions 
but clasped Nat tightly as he said, “I have been 
mighty worried and am surely glad you’re back.” 

While Hector shuffled around in the tiny kitchen, 



278 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

cooking waffles for supper, 1ST at told of his thrilling 
adventure. 

The next day it seemed to Nat that he had been 
away from Camp Redwood for years. ITe thought 
of the time he had come over the same trail, after his 
journey to the cedar timber with D arrow and his 
men. He had been proud to have the camp see him. 
Now he had really done much more, but he thought 
only of his seeing the camp, and not of how the camp 
would see him. He felt much older—almost a man. 

When they came to the top of a mountain, from 
which they could see the cabins of Camp Redwood 
down in the valley, Nat looked for the cook-house. 
Yes, it was still there, nestling among the alders. 
The shining rails of the railroad track were still 
winding down the mountain and across the valley, 
and Little River flowed gently on its way to the 
ocean not far distant, where they could see white- 
caps breaking along the rocky shore. 

The hillsides were dotted with masses of pink 
rhododendrons, purple iris, and creamy, heavily per¬ 
fumed azaleas. Butterflies sailed through the air 
with dainty outspread wings. A gorgeously col¬ 
ored, ruby-throated humming bird darted by, flut¬ 
tered in mid-air for an instant, then dipped 
down to the sweet-smelling flowers. Grasshoppers 
jumped here and there. “Look at the fish bait.” 
Nat tried to catch a big green fellow that landed on 


HOME-COMING 2 79 

Dick’s mane. “I’m going fishing in Little River 
the first thing in the morning before I go to work,” 
he said. 

Nat became a bit nervous as he neared home. He 
was glad to be near, yet he felt strange. He was 
sure of one thing: Micky would be glad to see him 
again. He hoped they had taken good care of the 
coon. His heart beat faster as he came up the em¬ 
bankment and saw the superintendent in his yard 
with his two daughters. Peggy’s light curls shone 
in the sunlight as she came up to the gate beside her 
father. Patsy, in a blue gingham dress that matched 
the blue of her eyes, stood back near the porch. 

Harrison came to meet them and explained that 
he had received a telephone message from the 
sheriff, telling about the capture of Darrow and 
Dillon. He grasped Old Timer’s hand and con¬ 
gratulated him for the part he had played in cap¬ 
turing Darrow. Turning to Nat, he said proudly, 
“Nat, my boy, we’re glad to see you. You’re the 
bravest boy I know. Come here, girls, and tell Nat 
how happy we are to see him.” 

Peggy smiled as she stepped forward and offered 
her hand. Off came Nat’s hat in a flash as he awk¬ 
wardly took the hand and stammered that he was 
glad to be back. 

Patsy slowly walked through the gate and out to 
the track. “ITello, Old Timer and Nat,” she said 


280 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

quietly. She gave her hand to Old Timer, and then 
to the boy, who smilingly replied, “Hello, Pat.” 

“Did you get the robbers? 5 ’ asked Patsy, with a 
serious look. 

“Yes, Old Timer and me,” Nat replied. 

“Weren’t you afraid?” 

“No, not much. I was a little bit afraid when 
they took me away. Not afraid of them, but afraid 
I’d never get home again.” 

“Oh!” Patsy said, as she looked at him with ad¬ 
miration. 

“Nat,” said Harrison, “will you come in a mo¬ 
ment? I want to tell you something.” 

“I’ll be gettin’ on,” Old Timer said. “See you 
later. Git up, Dick!” 

“Hello, Little Sister.” Nat stepped up on the 
front porch and took the chair offered by Mr. Har¬ 
rison as the baby of the family came running out of 
the house and tried to climb on his lap. 

“Hello; where you been?” she asked. “I didn’t 
see you for a long time.” 

“I’ve been away, over to Trinity County.” 

“Micky’s dead!” said Little Sister, hanging her 
head and biting her lower lip to keep the tears back. 

“What! What does she mean?” Nat asked, 
turning to Harrison. 

Peggy grasped Little Sister by the arm and 
pulled her into the house, as the latter stammered, 


HOME-COMING 281 

half crying, “Nat-can-have-my-wooster, my-Icha- 
bod Cwane.” 

Nat’s eyes smarted as he thought, “Something 
terrible’s happened to Micky.” He turned his head 
away from Mr. Harrison and from Patsy, who was 
sitting on the top step with her elbow on her knees 
and her jaw in her hands, looking across the river 
toward the Irvings’ cottage. 

Harrison broke the silence. “Nat, I didn’t want 
the news told you in such a heartless way, but Little 
Sister evidently was very anxious for you to know.” 
He then told him that for a long time Jack Irving 
had been missing his chickens. “Every so often an 
animal, which he thought was a skunk or a mink, 
would go into his chicken-house at night to steal 
them. Night before last he heard the same noise, 
and ran out to find that his big red rooster was miss¬ 
ing. Under the chicken-house he saw two shining 
eyes. It was the first chance he’d had to get rid of 
the animal, so he shot it. In the morning, when he 
went out to get the skunk, he found that it was your 
coon. He feels pretty badly about it, and wants 
to get another one for you.” 

Nat feared that he was going to cry. He swal¬ 
lowed hard, and twirled his hat in his hand. He 
grinned—with tears in his eyes—and said, “But I 
don’t want another one.” He remembered that 
Irving had told him that something was stealing his 



282 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

chickens, the morning that he caught the mink. “I 
guess I’d better be going on down and see Mr. and 
Mrs. Higgins.” He didn’t want to talk about his 
little pet. 

“All right, Nat, they are anxious to see you.” 
Harrison got up and walked with him to the gate. 

“I’d like to go back to work in the morning,” the 
boy said. 

“No, I think you’d better wait. Mr. Shannon is 
in Mallard and wants to see you to-morrow. He’ll 
be out about ten o’clock.” 

“Mr. Shannon! I’ll be glad to see him.” Nat 
put on his hat. “Why, I haven’t seen him since the 
day of the wreck.” 

“He’ll be here in my office, so you had better come 
up here, Nat.” 

“All right, I’ll watch for the speeder and come up 
as soon as he gets here.” Nat turned and walked 
slowly down the track. 

As he neared the cook-house he saw, through the 
alder trees, that the lumberjacks had just finished 
supper. Axel, the Norwegian, sat on the steps of 
the porch, smoking his big pipe and talking to Jake 
the packer, who leaned against a corner of the 
cook-house. 

Several Mexicans and Indians, who had always 
been Nat’s friends, and a number of Swedes and 
Danes sat on the ground under an alder, smoking 


HOME-COMING 283 

and talking. Other loggers stood around, while 
some were sitting on the edge of the porch. 

Suddenly Axel jumped to his feet. “He iss 
here!” he shouted, in a booming voice. “We yust 
bane vaiting, Nat!” He grabbed the boy and swung 
him around, bumping into Jake, who had stepped 
up to give Nat a resounding pat on the back. The 
loggers crowded around, shouting and clamoring 
to see the boy who had captured the robbers, and to 
shake his hand. The Indians and Mexicans hung 
back at the edge of the crowd, but their eyes and 
broad smiles plainly showed their pleasure. 

Nat was surprised, and a little embarrassed. He 
did not expect that every one would be so glad to 
see him. All that he had thought was that he would 
be glad to see them. He smiled broadly and said, 
“Hello, everybody!” 

Scotty, in his long white apron, ran out from the 
cook-house, with Higgins, Mrs. Higgins, and Emma 
hurrying after. Mrs. Higgins chuckled quietly, 
but Emma laughed outright and grabbed the boy’s 
hand as Axel swung him up on the porch. 

Just then Old Timer appeared. “What in thun- 
deration’s all th’ racket about?” he asked. 

“An’ der’s de ole man!” Axel grabbed him and 
pushed him up the steps beside Nat. 

“Speech, speech, Old Timer!” shouted the men. 

Old Timer sputtered and spat tobacco juice into 


284 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

a blackberry vine at the edge of the porch. He did 
not know what to say. He thrust his hands into his 
overall pockets and shifted from one foot to the 
other. Finally he began: 

“We-el, sir, boys, I ain’t use’t to makin’ a speech 
—th’ fact is I guess I ain’t never spoke b’fore—an’ 
as fer takin’ any credit fer catchin’ that ornery, 
thievin’ skinflint, Darrow, an’ th’ other varmits that 
is jist like ’im, why, I don’t want none. This young 
’un here”—pointing to Nat—“is th’ very one that 
did th’ catchin’.” 

The men howled, “Speech! Speech, Nat!” 

The boy looked at the crowd, at Old Timer, and 
then back at the crowd. He thought, “I don’t know 
what to say.” He looked inquiringly at Higgins. 

“Come on Nat, just anything,” Higgins whis¬ 
pered. 

He was glad Patsy could not see him now. But 
even if she could not see him she would hear all about 
it. Wouldn’t she be surprised if he did make a good 
speech! The thought gave him courage, and he 
stepped forward. 

“Friends and fellow loggers . . .”—to him his 
voice sounded shaky and strange. He started 
again. “Friends and fellow loggers, I’m very glad 
to be here on the cook-house porch talking to you.” 
He paused, for that was not altogether true. But 
he decided that he could not take back his words. 



HOME-COMING 28S 

“Darrow and Dillon are safely locked in jail,”— 
this was greeted by shouts from the loggers—“and 
I hope the other two robbers get caught, and I know 
that your watches and checks and Old Timer’s gold 
will be returned.” There was more shouting. “It’s 
mighty fine of you to treat Old Timer and me this 
way, and I think I’ll go and eat, now. Oh, boy, 
I’m hungry!” 

“Of course he’s hungry,” shouted Higgins, as he 
took Nat off with him to the kitchen, amidst shouts 
and laughter and handclapping. 



CHAPTER XXII 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 

“To brew the coffee for his men 
Paul Bunyan had a kettle, 

Two miles wide and one mile deep; 

It took a month to settle.” 

Scotty sang loudly as he scoured the big alumi¬ 
num coffeepot, the morning after Nat’s return, while 
Nat helped Emma and Mrs. Higgins carry the 
heavy dishes from the dining-room into the kitchen. 

“I’ll wash the dishes as soon as you get that pot 
scrubbed, Scotty,” he said. 

“Go ahead, I’m all through now.” Scotty lifted 
the kettle from the sink. “Better get an apron, 
though!” 

“You bet!” Nat went to the pantry, where he 
found one of Scotty’s big white aprons. He put 
it on, then rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. 
“Might just as well help Scotty,” he thought. “Old 
Timer’s gone to the store to get supplies to take back 
home with him.” 

“Sure you haven’t forgot how to wash dishes?” 
Adams Cluff managed to smile. 

286 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 287 

Emma, tall and thin, in a pink gingham dress and 
a short white apron, set a stack of mush bowls on 
the drain-board. ‘Til bet he hasn’t,” she said, “and 
I’ll bet he hasn’t forgotten how to peel potatoes, 
either.” 

“Well, he doesn’t have to peel any potatoes nor 
wash dishes unless he wants to,” said Mrs. Higgins, 
bustling around and rattling plates as she set them 
down on the table. 

“I don’t mind. I want to do it.” Nat grinned, 
for the things that were once dreadful tasks had be¬ 
come fun. He turned the faucet and hot water 
poured into the sink, sending clouds of steam to the 
ceiling. 

“Scotty, you know I’m just dying to find out some 
things,” he said. 

“What things?” Scotty asked. 

“Well, for instance, the green light on the Lone 
Pine trail, and how Mr. Harrison got wise to Dillon, 
and what those records or papers are that Darrow 
didn’t want Harrison to see, and—” 

“Hold on, wait a minute. Didn’t Harrison tell 
you all about that?” 

“Why, no.” Nat looked mystified. 

“Well, he’ll prob’ly explain it all to you to-day. 
Anyway, I guess I can tell you that it’s a darn good 
thing you told me about that green light. I don’t 
see why I didn’t think of it, myself.” 


288 THE WHISTLEPUNK 

As Nat went on with his work he looked out of 
the window to the mountains across the river. 
Though he had been gone only a few days, it seemed 
months since he had worked as a whistlepunk at the 
top of that mountain. He thought of that day 
when he lost his place. “I’m glad Dillon’s not 
there now. I’ll be working for Jack Irving and 
Axel when I go back. I’ll be glad to get to work 
and start making money again, for I’ll have to save 
a lot in the next few weeks to make up for the time 
I’ve lost.” He thought of his little coon. “Poor 
little Micky. But he had no right to steal chick¬ 
ens.” 

Jack Irving had gone to Nat’s cabin the night be¬ 
fore and had told him how sorry he was that he had 
killed the little animal. He offered to get another, 
but the boy decided that it was best not to have a pet 
around the cook-house. “I miss him, though.” He 
bit his lips to control himself, and swished the dishes 
around in the hot, soapy water. 

Scotty stepped up with a large kettle of uncooked 
brown beans. “Let me have some water to cook 
these in, will you?” 

“Sure!” Nat peered into the kettle as Scotty 
turned the water in. “Do you still have to cook 
beans every day?” 

Scotty’s pale blue eyes twinkled and his sandy 
mustache bristled. “Yes, sir. Beans is our special 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 289 

dish, and it’s the special dish Paul Bunyan feeds 
his loggers.” 

The boy chuckled. Then, as he glanced at the 
clock above the sink, he mused, “It’s just an hour 
till ten o’clock. Wonder why Mr. Shannon wants 
to see me. About Darrow, I s’pose. Gee, it makes 
a fellow feel kind of queer to be called to the office 
when he doesn’t know what it’s all about. Hope 
they haven’t changed their minds about giving my 
job back.” 

After he had washed the dishes he went to his 
cabin. He had been there only a few minutes when 
he heard a speeder coming up the track. “There’s 
Mr. Shannon now,” he thought. “I didn’t know 
it was ten o’clock. I’ll have to hurry!” He ran 
out in time to see the speeder run past in the direc¬ 
tion of Harrison’s. 

Whistling the “Song of the Whistlepunk,” Nat 
hurried after it. As he passed through the super¬ 
intendent’s gate he hesitated a moment, then walked 
up the steps and across the porch. The office door 
was open, and Mr. Shannon, gray-haired, tall, and 
slightly stooped, stepped out to meet him. “Nat, 
m’lad, how are you?” He greeted the boy warmly. 
“Come into the office.” 

Mr. Harrison, who was sitting at his desk, turned. 
“Hello, Nat,” he smiled, “how’s the boy this morn¬ 
ing? All rested up from your trip?” 


290 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“Yes, sir, and I feel fine.” 

“Here, sit down.” Shannon motioned to a chair 
beside Harrison’s desk. Nat’s eyes were round 
when he saw on the desk the big envelope that had 
been in Darrow’s mackinaw. “Those are the pa¬ 
pers Darrow didn’t want you to see!” he exclaimed 
excitedly. 

Harrison nodded. “I guess he didn’t want us 
to see those reports.” He picked up several sheets 
of paper and looked at them. “Nat,” he said, “these 
papers have proved to be very important. They 
have uncovered a conspiracy involving the Beckman 
Cedar Company of San Francisco, which bribed 
Darrow and his men to deliver an incorrect estimate 
of the cedar timber to the Shannon Lumber Com¬ 
pany, thereby stealing millions of feet of lumber.” 

“Why, I didn’t know they were that important!” 
Nat exclaimed. A thrill raced through him as Har¬ 
rison went on: 

“Frank Dillon, alias Alex Brock, who is wanted 
up north for burglary, was the man on the Lone 
Pine trail with the green light.” 

Nat asked eagerly, “What was the light?” He 
barely breathed as he waited for the answer. 

“The green light was Dillon’s flashlight, with a 
green globe instead of a white one. The green 
globe gives a softer light and is not so glaring. You 
see how it is.” 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 291 

“Oh!” Nat said thoughtfully. “But what was he 
doing on that trail ?” 

“He went out there to meet Darrow, who gave 
him reports similar to these to send to Beckman in 
San Francisco. They didn’t want to risk sending 
them in the Camp Redwood mail sack.” 

Nat nodded. “That was pretty clever.” 

“Yes. But thanks to you, we’ve caught them,” 
said Mr. Shannon. 

Nat was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “But 
I don’t understand how you got wise to Dillon.” 

“Well, Nat,” Harrison answered, “we have to 
thank you for that, too! If you had not seen the 
green light and told Scotty about it we wouldn’t 
have suspected Dillon.” 

“How’s that?” Nat was a bit impatient to under¬ 
stand what he had suspected so long. 

“When Scotty went to Dillon’s cabin to make up 
the beds he found a green flashlight globe on the 
floor in back of the bed. He became suspicious and 
took it to his cabin to try out in his flashlight. It 
cast a light that was exactly the same color as that 
which he had seen on the trail. Then he went to 
your cabin and searched it thoroughly. He found 
nothing. But outside he saw a small folded paper 
with a few numbers written on it. That paper was 
a piece of the cruisers’ report. He suspected the 
cruisers of the robbery.” 


292 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

Nat laughed loudly. “Old Scotty! I’ll say he 
ought to be a detective.” The two men laughed 
with him, but stopped suddenly when the telephone 
on the superintendent’s desk rang. 

Harrison answered it. When he had finished 
his conversation he turned to Nat and Shannon. 
“That sure is good luck! It was the sheriff’s office 
in Eureka. They’ve had a wire from Siskiyou 
County saying that the other two cruisers, Jim and 
Carl, have been taken into custody and will be 
brought back to Humboldt.” 

“How’d they catch ’em?” Nat asked quickly. 

“Well, you see, Nat,” Harrison told him, “just 
as soon as we discovered the robbery I telephoned to 
the sheriff, and he sent a deputy out here who looked 
over the clues Scotty had found. He took three of 
our men and went out to the cruisers’ camp, but, as 
you know, no one was there. It was dark when they 
got back to Camp Redwood. Neither you nor Old 
Timer had returned, and I can’t tell you how wor¬ 
ried we were. So I ordered all the loggers in all 
the camps to search the country between here and 
Hector’s for you. I thought maybe you had started 
for Hector’s and got lost. But just after daylight, 
when the men were ready to start out, we received a 
message from the Forest Ranger at Carlson’s Camp 
telling us that you and Old Timer were safe. The 
sheriff had already telephoned to all the neighbor- 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 293 

ing counties to watch out for the bandits. And, by 
George, they’ve caught the other two! That’s 
pretty good!” 

“You bet!” Nat exclaimed. 

“Now,” Harrison smiled, “I think Mr. Shannon 
has something to say to you, Nat.” 

“M’lad,” the president of the Shannon Company 
said slowly, “I’ll not keep you waiting any longer, 
for I know you’re wondering why we called you to 
the office.” 

Nat was wondering so much that he felt he could 
not wait. But he quietly said, “Yes, sir.” 

“I think,” Shannon went on earnestly, “that a 
boy as brave as you are, who saves his money for 
schooling, knowing that it will take years to save 
enough, should have a chance.” He paused a mo¬ 
ment, and the thought came swiftly to Nat: “Bet I’m 
going to get a raise in wages.” But he was wholly 
unprepared for what followed, as Shannon went on 
in a smooth, even voice: 

“Mrs. Shannon and I want you to come to San 
Francisco, live with us, and go to school.” 

Nat was breathless as he looked first at Shannon, 
then at Harrison. 

“You know,” the latter explained, “Mrs. Shan¬ 
non and I live alone in a big house, and we think it 
would be great to have you with us, and to help you 
get the education that I know you are so eager to 


294 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

have. Will you come?” He leaned forward, with 
his hands on the arms of the chair. 

For an instant Nat was speechless, but when 
he found his voice he spoke in a quick rush of 
words. “Mr. Shannon, I’d like awful well to go. 
I’ve always wanted a chance to study. But—” 
he paused and his gaze fell to the floor, “—I’d like to 
work, too. You see,” he looked from one man to 
the other, “I haven’t saved such a great deal of 
money. I think I’d feel lots better to have money 
of my own.” 

His meaning was clear, for Shannon nodded. “I 
see,” he said seriously. '‘We’ll find something for 
you.” 

"Why not let him work in your office after school 
hours?” suggested Harrison. 

"The very thing!” agreed Shannon. "Would 
you like that, Nat? Will you go?” 

"Yes, thank you. I’d sure like to! When shall 
I pack my things? It won’t take me long to get 
myself ready!” 

"I’m going to Mallard on the four o’clock logging 
train. You come along and we’ll leave there on the 
evening train for San Francisco.” 

"Yes, sir, I’ll be ready!” Nat jumped to his feet, 
walked swiftly across the porch, and out to the rail¬ 
road track. 


"San Francisco—an education—a home!” He 




MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 295 

started to run, but slowed a little as a sobering 
thought came to him. “My mountains, my red¬ 
woods, my wildflowers, Old Timer, Hector—they 
will all be gone!” He looked long at the huge 
stumps and the young growth. “But how many 
times I have wished for a chance to go to school! My 
dreams are coming true!” 

Nat’s face was wreathed in smiles, his eyes were 
shining, and traces of dimples appeared in his cheeks 
as he ran to the cook-house and bounded through 
the doorway into the kitchen. 

“Scotty! Emma!” he shouted. Scotty came 
running from the pantry. Emma, Higgins, and 
Mrs. Higgins hurried in from the dining-room. 

“I’m going away down south! To San Fran¬ 
cisco!” Nat exclaimed, as he grabbed Scotty by the 
arm. “I told you I’d go to school some day, and 
now I’m going!” He laughed joyously as he 
thought of his future. 

“For land’s sakes!” Emma interrupted as she 
stood staring at the excited boy. “Are you dream¬ 
ing or have you just gone plumb crazy?” 

“Neither, Emma,” Mrs. Higgins said. “He’s 
going to leave us.” 

“Yes,” Higgins said, “I’ve an idea he is.” 

“Well, if you’re going south,” Scotty said, “y° u 
want to send word first, like Paul Bunyan did.” 
Then he sang in a deep voice: 


296 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 

“When Paul’s men finished in the west 
And north and also east, 

He sent word to his friends down south 
By the fast migrating geese, 

“That he’d be with them very soon 
To log off cypress trees. 

It stormed and the snow was awful deep 
So they had to wear their skis. 

“The skis worked fine on ice and snow, 

But when they crossed the desert hot 
They warped and grew all out of shape, 

Till the men were a sorry lot. 

“They slipped and slid in circles round. 

Across the gritty sands they darted, 

And then at last they found themselves 
Right back where they had started.” 

“All right, Scotty, but a few years from now I’m 
not going to find myself right back where I started! 
Bring on the geese and I’ll send ’em to tell the whole 
world I’m coming! Got to go and pack now. Has 
Old Timer come back from the store yet?” He 
didn’t wait for an answer but hastily went in search 
of the old man, whom he found in his cabin. 

The old prospector was astounded at the good 
news. “You don’t mean to tell me that yer leavin’ 
us fer good?” 

“We-11, not exactly for good, for I think Mr. 
Shannon’ll let me come up here for my vacations. 
Won’t that be great?” 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 297 

“Yup! Maybe we can go prospectin’ together!” 

“You bet! I’ve got to pack now, Old Timer.” 

“I’ve got Jubilo all packed an’ I’m all ready to 
strike out fer Trinity County an’ home.” 

“Aren’t you going to wait for dinner?” 

“Nope. I want to git as fer as Hector’s to-night.” 

Nat was thoughtful for a moment. “I’d sure 
like to see Hector again, but there’s no chance. I’ll 
write a note and tell him the news. Will you give 
it to him?” 

“Yup!” Old Timer waited while Nat wrote a 
short note and gave it to him. “Wish you could 
wait till after dinner,” said Nat. 

“I’d better go now.” The old man took the boy’s 
hand and held it firmly. “We had some awful good 
times together, Nat,” he said, with a note of sadness 
in his voice. “I’ll miss you a turrible lot. Take 
good keer o’ yerself, an’ write as soon’s you git 
there.” 

“You bet I will!” Nat followed him to the door 
and watched him walk to the clump of alders where 
he had left Jubilo. He sighed deeply as the old man 
turned and waved, and then started off, with his 
shaggy little burro jogging along behind. 

After dinner Emma and Mrs. Higgins bustled 
around, pressing Nat’s only white shirt and suit 
of clothes. 

At noon, when the loggers came in for dinner, Nat 


298 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


told them the news. They were surprised, and sorry 
to see him go away, but they all wished him good 
luck and told him that they hoped he would come 
back next summer for his vacation. Jack Irving 
and Axel promised him his old job during vacation 
months if he wanted it. 

As the time for him to leave drew near, Nat half 
wished he were not going. He thought of poor little 
Micky, and of Patsy and Peggy, and wondered if 
the girls would miss him. Soon he heard the rumble 
of heavily loaded cars and looked out to see engine 
33 pull up to the dispatcher’s office and stop. His 
heart seemed to miss a beat as he glanced around the 
bare cabin. He heard footsteps on the board walk, 
and turned to look. 

“Your trunk ready, Nat?” Fleming, the conduc¬ 
tor, followed by Shorty, the engineer, came in. Nat 
motioned to the trunk. 

“So you’re leavin’ us?” Fleming asked. 

“Yes,” Nat said slowly. 

“By Glory!” exclaimed Shorty. “We’ll miss 
you.” 

“Yep.” Fleming started out with the trunk. 
“We’ve all got kinda used to seein’ you around.” 

“Is £ 33’ taking the loads to Mallard to-night?” 
Nat took a last hasty glance around his cabin and 
followed Shorty to the front porch, where he found 
Scotty, Higgins, Mrs. Higgins, and Emma waiting 


MYSTERIES EXPLAINED 299 

for him. After they had all said good-bye and told 
him that they would expect to see him the next sum¬ 
mer, he walked around the engine to the dispatcher’s 
office. 

“Here’s the lad now,” he heard Shannon say as he 
stepped out of the office. “Mr. Harrison was just 
going to see if you were ready.” 

“Hello, Nat. Peggy and I came down to say 
good-bye,” Patsy said, as she and Peggy and their 
father came out of the office. 

Nat laughed and talked with the girls until the 
caboose, at the rear end of the train, stopped oppo¬ 
site the porch, and the brakeman put the trunk in the 
car. 

“We’d better get aboard, Nat,” Mr. Shannon said. 

They all followed. After shaking hands warmly 
with Harrison, Patsy, and Peggy, Nat stepped up 
on the platform beside Mr. Shannon, ready to begin 
his journey. 

In a few minutes he waved a last good-bye to the 
cook-house crew on the porch and to Patsy, Peggy, 
and Mr. Harrison, standing near the track. As the 
train rounded a curve they were lost to his view. He 
smiled to himself. “It was nice of Patsy and Peggy 
to come down,” he thought. “I’ll miss them. But 
I’m glad to get this chance!” 

He smiled as he looked around at the mountains. 
Then he sang softly: 


THE WHISTLEPUNK 


“One to go ahead, 

Two to come back; 
Three for an easy pull, 
Four for the slack. 

Go ahead easy, 

Come back slow; 

She’s a haywire outfit 
And a darn poor show.” 


The End 






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